Oh Nothing, Just Over Here Feeling Sorry for Myself

I saw the radiation oncologist the other day.

I’m fine.

Everything’s fine.

I show no outward symptoms of recurrence; which means he gave my stupid boobs a thorough rub down and all is well.

Except…I’m fat.

He was quick to remind me of all the studies that show that pre-menopausal women who develop triple negative breast cancer have a much lower recurrence if they reach and maintain a healthy body weight.

Duh.

I know that.

I KNOW THAT.

And yet, there we were, me in a stupid hospital gown, talking about diets and exercise and blah blah blah.

I was able to tell him that I’ve been walking thirty minutes each night for three weeks. I’ve lost four pounds since my late April appointment with the chemo oncologist.

Alas, that’s not nearly enough.

Did you know that muscle burns fat even when you’re sleeping?

Yeah, me too.

But Dr. R was quick to remind me of that fact as he suggested adding a weight resistance routine to my walking.

Okay, see, I know that walking isn’t the best exercise there is. I also know that I’m not going to go to a gym. I’m not going to join a yoga class (OMG, can you even imagine? Picture my fat ass in a pair of yoga pants and a sports bra in a class huffing and puffing amongst a group of strangers. Oh, that’s right, THAT’S NOT GOING TO HAPPEN.)

So walking is the best I can do right now.

And let me state AGAIN that I will never, ever take on a weight-resistance or lifting routine again in my life.

I showed Dr. R my biceps as proof that even with minimal weights, I put on bulky muscle. He admired my stupid muscles and said he was jealous.

I eyed his scrawny arms and told him I was jealous of his.

Oh yes, I did say that. I am not even making that one up for story-telling purposes. Nope, I told my skinny doctor I wished I had his peewee arms.

Tom told me that Dr. R was probably not flattered by my statement.

I deadpanned, “I didn’t mean it as flattery.”

I’m sure you can figure out that once again following an appointment with this doctor, I’m in a REALLY shitty mood.

I hate myself so much right now.

I hate that I let him get to me. I hate that I’m so fat. I hate that being this fat could cause my stupid cancer to come back. I hate that I hate exercise. I hate that I eat too much junk food. I hate that my body is so gross. I hate that I’m a brat and an antagonist. I hate that when someone makes a gentle suggestion, I take it to heart and then just want to cry my stupid eyes out.

Oh… and even better still? My left arm is three centimeters bigger than my right arm.

Sure, I’m left handed, so…makes sense right?

Apparently this could be the first signs of lymphedema. Joy!

Dr. R wants me to start physical therapy on my left arm to at least keep the lymphedema at bay.

Okay.

I called the clinic near where I work yesterday. I was in the process of giving all my information when the scheduler said something along the lines of, “As of right now, our lymphedema clinic is at the Dupont Hospital campus. But on July 1, they’re moving to Clinton Avenue.”

I stopped her right there, “I’m not driving that far for this.”

I was probably bitchier than I meant to be but I was already in a horrible mood and being told that I’d have to drive a minimum of 40 minutes one way for this therapy pushed me right over the edge from annoyed to furious.

I held back the tears that threatened as she tried to assure me that the clinic wasn’t moving that much farther away than it already was.

“Are you familiar with Dupont?” she asked.

I am. I take Olivia to the dentist in that area.

“Do you know where Leo Crossing is?” she continued.

Nope.

“How about The Rusty Spur?”

I told her that I am not familiar at all with Fort Wayne and so nothing she was saying was ringing a bell.

I then told her I’d have to call her back. I was going to go home and research lymphedema and see how important this stupid therapy really is.

I think I apologized and told her I wasn’t trying to be difficult but going all the way to Fort Wayne on a regular basis simply wasn’t something I was interested in doing.

I mean, come on! Even if I had a 4pm appointment, I’d have to leave work at 3:00 and if the appointment lasted an hour, I’d not leave for home until 5, and because of traffic, would probably not get home until after 6.

No.

So after spending a little time on Google I learned that the therapy involved in treating lymphedema is 75% massage. They also wrap the affected limb and teach the patient how to care for their skin.

I got home after all this and had to take a minute before I could talk about it with Tom without crying.

I’m such a freaking baby.

Tom tried to help. I know he did. But he really just made it worse for me.

He followed a link from the site I found about therapy that talked about surgery. Right. Sure. Let’s just jump right to surgery.

The morning after the doctor’s appointment he said something about how I could drive to Fort Wayne once to meet with the PT and see if it is something I even really need.

I could. I might.

I need to calm down first though and get my head straight.

On the bright side, I don’t have to see the radiation oncologist for another year. That gives me plenty of time to get out of my funk and maybe figure out how to motivate myself to lose some freaking weight.