“Disintegration is the best album ever!” - Eric Cartman.  And probably anyone who went through a depression in 1989/1990.

My other consideration for the title was “Wicked Game”.  And while by and large my titles are really just titles and bare little relation to the actual song’s I’ve mentioned, this juxtaposition was too much.  Besides. . .  The Cure really nailed it with their album.

Here’s what no one tells you about cancer.  When everything’s quiet . . . When it all calms down. . . . When you’re through what looked like should be the worst of it . . . . THAT’s when the worst of it starts.

I remember coming out of that first appointment with the breast surgeon feeling almost elated.  Like, “hey, this isn’t going to be so bad after all!”  Part of it was because my breast surgeon is AWESOME and made me feel completely confident that this isn’t my end, but just more chapters in my story.  Part of it was because in all of the ways any cancer diagnosis could go, this was almost as good as it gets.  And part of it was this. . . .

Even at the time, I thought “could that really be all?”  I mean, I hadn’t really cried or felt anything negative at this point.  So given the relatively good news, was this really all?  Surgery.  Reconstruction.  Done.  So I reached out to my two good friends again and asked them is this really going to be it. . . . And they both were like, “Yes!  That’s such great news!”.

But as I look back on it, I realize that they were focused on the diagnosis.  Whereas, what I was really asking was much more about my psychological health.  Because that part hadn’t even begun.

Don’t get me wrong, there were dark days during my surgeries and recoveries.  But honestly, the worst of it was coming off of the Oxy.  And I knew that’s what it was, and while I would absolutely break down and have my moments, I was able to tell myself that I just needed a week and this feeling of despair would be gone.  Because that’s what Oxy does.  Very quickly, in fact.  But if you’ve only taken it for a week, then you only need a week to rebalance and feel more stable.  And it definitely helped.

But then recovery is over, and there’s nothing much going on.  And that’s when it hits.  You’re alone with your thoughts.  Your appointments have dwindled.  There’s not a whole lot to focus on, but you can’t get back to your normal life just yet.  So in the quiet of that in-between time, things sneak in.

Here’s what I was left to focus on.  With each passing day and each movement I would make, I was reminded that I am not, and never will be again, the same.  Okay, that’s fine.  Life is a constant lesson.  Shifting.  Changing.  Making us different each day.  But when it’s physical, that’s harder to swallow.  And when you have something literally inside you, reminding you that you are not normal, well.  That’s a lot to take on.  This was my February.

Tissue spacers suck.  Period.  Once they were filled with the saline solution, I thought it would feel more normal.  But oh my.  Could NOT have been more wrong.  They are absolutely nothing like the real thing, NOR are they even close to the silicone implants I eventually received.  You know those rectangles filled with blue liquid that shift from end to end, to mimic watching ocean waves?  They have a tipping point, right?  Sure it’s smooth and flowy to watch, but then it gets just passed that tipping point, and gravity takes over.  That’s what it’s like to bend over to pick something up when you have these spacers with saline solution.

With each passing day, it would set me more and more on edge.  

There were other sensations, too, that did the same thing.  By the end of every single day, I’d be in tears.

Then I went to Costa Rica, and while (up until the ATV accident) I had a great time, putting on a swimsuit was a little demoralizing because things weren’t “even”.  And probably no one could tell.  But I don’t care about others.  I could tell.  And so I just felt more like a freak show with each passing day.

But again, I just had to get to the next surgery, and everything will be fine.  This isn’t the end result.  The end result will be better.  Much better.

And so, on March 22nd, the rest of the reconstruction was completed.  And I couldn’t believe how much more normal I felt!  That day.  Coming home that afternoon.  A WORLD of difference. And March and April were great months.  I mean, again.  Recovery had to ensue, and I would be laid up again for a bit.  But we all just want to feel normal in our own skin, and this day was that first big step back to what my new normal would be.

Among all of this, let’s not forget, are my hormone treatments.  Or rather, anti-hormone treatments.  You know, since the goal is to get rid of the estrogen.  

By April, I was now getting monthly injections of a hormone suppressant and taking a hormone blocker daily.  I still giggle when I look at the side-effects list of both of them.  Hot flashes.  Poor sleep.  Moodiness.  Lack of memory.

Oh, you mean Menopause??  Can you call it a side effect when it’s actually the intended effect?

I like the term “moodiness”.  Captures all manners of things, doesn’t it?  Though, the list for Letrozole does specifically say “Depression”.

By the end of May, depression started sneaking its way in.  Only, I’m not sure I truly grasped the gravity of it.  I knew something was “off”.  Sometimes I felt a bit catatonic.  And I never really felt much like talking.  And let’s face it, talking is my FAVORITE!  It’s a beyond rare occurrence that I should find myself at a loss for words.  And I think I faked it pretty good.  But let me tell you. . . . It was utterly exhausting!  I often found myself thinking “you need to say something”. If you’re a fan of Friends this will make sense . . . “Say something clever. . . . Okay, doesn’t have to clever, just has to be words.  Say some words.  Any words will do.  Oh my God, this is longest anyone has not talked EVER!”  Me.  On a daily basis.  Except, without the part where I have to explain trying to kiss my cousin.  I mean, obvi.

June was fun.  By mid-June I’d given up trying to just talk because “that made me look normal”.  And also when I started realizing I was just existing.  I wasn’t happy.   I wasn’t sad.  I wasn’t, well, anything.  But I was alive.  So, there’s that at least.

I would test myself . . . I’d be with friends, or on a run, or at the golf club, or whatever the situation . . . But I would think to myself, “Is this fun?  Am I having fun?  Am I experiencing joy?  Am I experiencing any emotion at all?”

Can’t think of a time back then when the answer came back as “yes”.  It was usually, “No.  But it’s also not bad.  It’s just nothing.”

And I thought about all of the times I’d wonder to myself about other people and how they just need to change their mindset and cheer up.  Yep, life has given me a WHOLE new perspective on depression.  You cannot think your way out of it.  Something else has to happen.  Therapy.  Drugs.  Maybe it’s just a shift your body makes on it’s own.  But I’ve come to realize that a positive mindset only works when the mind is in a healthy place already.

During May and June, my dream of just getting in the car and taking off was coming to mind more and more.  No real destination.  Just to leave and go.  Would that make me happy?  Or even just feel better?  Thankfully my mind was healthy enough to know that was simply out of the question, but I did have my trip to Lake Placid to look forward to.  A happy place.  A place to leave my every day life behind, and just get up each day and decide what I wanted to do that day and not have to answer to anyone else but me.  Stay in bed?  Run?  Hike?  Watch stuff on my iPad all day?  Didn’t matter.

So late July, I drive on up to Lake Placid, ready to have a break from my everyday thoughts on life.

This is when I knew I was in trouble.  I was in my happy place.  Not happy.  Again, not anything at all, really.  Until I went hiking.  

The year before, I had gone hiking with some friends.  One of whom had a goal of hiking up a trail called Pitchoff, and jumping across the crevice of Balanced Rocks.  I had decided back when I got diagnosed that my next trip up, I wanted to do that hike again and jump across as well.  (Didn’t do it the year before.)  So clearly, this trip had been on my mind for awhile.

The hike up was perfectly fine. I mean, I felt nothing.  Didn’t talk much.  But as that was how I’d been lately, it was, you know, normal.  

My plan for hiking up wasn’t only to jump across the rocks.  I wanted to scream.  Scream at the world.  A massive release kind of scream.  A Melissa-Ethridge-At-The-Grammys kind of scream.  But I got up there, and I just couldn’t summon the emotion I would need to have that kind of catharsis.  It completely eluded me.

The hike down is when I discovered how far off my own beaten path I had gotten.

I’d find myself not keeping up with the pace and feeling incredibly alone.  Then I’d catch up and not want to be near people.  I really couldn’t figure out which was better - together or alone.  

Frustrated.  Angry.  Sad. And then that one little thought crept in. It was quick.  Quicker than fleeting.  But it happened. “I wish I didn’t exist”.  

The good news is that thought scared the crap out of me, and I knew I needed help.  But also, there was sadness!  An emotion!  I mean, not a good one, of course.  And I’m talking so beyond soul-crushingly sad.  But as awful as that sounds, it actually gave me hope.  Because, well, it’s at least an emotion.

When I got back home from that trip, I made an appointment with my therapist.  And I also called my oncologist regarding the hot flashes that seemed so much worse from the injection I received in July.  The hot flashes wake me, and part of the reason for my trip into the Pits of Despair, I’m convinced, was lack of sleep.  

They say it’s darkest before the dawn.  Turns out there’s no drug that’s solely for hot flashes. Anything they’ve found to work for hot flashes for those with hormone-positive breast cancer are all anti-depressants.  So, the oncologist prescribed me Venlafaxine.  And just like any drug, it will or won’t work, and comes with a long list of side effects.  In my case it did not work.  Like at all.  And I experienced half of that list of side effects, one being even worse hot flashes.  Nice, huh?  Oh-so-much worse!

Plus also, panic attacks, high blood pressure, muscle twitches, jittery, nausea (though I get that on the daily anyway, but this was worse), unsteady, agitated (more sadness and crying), and some other not fun effects.  I honestly think it was half the list.

Okay, so that didn’t work for me.  Two doses and I’m done trying that.  But oddly enough, here is where it all turns around.

My last dose of that was on a Thursday.  By Sunday, my mood had done a 180.  And for the next several weeks, I felt better than I had since before the world shut down in March of 2020.

I’m still feeling pretty good, but I get weird around the time of my injections.  I suppose that’s to be expected, and as long as I’m kind to myself, so far my mind hasn’t strayed too far. And at the very least, I’m feeling emotions.

A few people have reached out to me since I’ve started blogging everything, to unfortunately tell me they’ve been dealt the same shit cards I got last October.  I’m always sorry to hear this news, but as you know it’s not a death sentence.  But also know that you need to keep talking.  I stopped talking for a month or so, and as you all know, generally my life is an open book.  You have to keep talking.  Even if it’s just one person you put your trust in.

Also, maybe ask people to tell you when you seem not quite yourself.  I knew I wasn’t myself in some ways, like I said.  I just didn’t know how far off I was.  Thankfully I already had a therapist to help me with some initial struggles of loss and survivor guilt, so I didn’t have to rush to find someone.  She is through the Cancer Center at St. Barnabas, and it’s a free service.  Hopefully this is standard care in all cancer centers.

There are no guarantees in life.  A lesson that hit us all hard and fast in 2020.  My mind might tank again.  I’m still getting injections for at least another six months.  And I’ll be on this awful hormone blocker for another 4.5.  Lord only knows what will happen.  I can only hope I’ll recognize it more quickly if it does come back.  Or someone will.

”And you screamed at the make believe, screamed at the sky.  And you finally found all your courage to let it all go.” - Pictures of You.