06 September 2012

You *can* change the laws of physics

tagged under with 2 comments


I thought it would be a good idea to ask everyone to remind me to post again. Instead of forcing me to start posting more frequently, I became more inventive with my excuses to not do it. At least I succeeded in increasing my creative output. On that note, it's finally time to bestow my adventures in radiation with the world.

Step one of radiation is alignment. Apparently they take this very seriously so there's a better chance of you not glowing in the dark. It starts with what is essentially a medical-grade bean bag pillow. I was told to lie still in a most uncomfortable position with my left arm above my head. As the air was sucked out of the pillow, the nurse continually readjusted things until the pillow turned into a mold of my properly contorted upper half.

After the mold comes the tattoos. Three dark blue, skin defiling dots about 1mm in diameter. First, the nurse marked the chosen spots with a medical pen. Then, a disturbingly large drop of ink was splattered over each general area. Finally, I was told to inhale, and she viciously stabbed the ink under my skin. Not only did each jab hurt, they also bled profusely.  One even required a band-aid! Where are these marks of the devil, you ask? The first is nearly centered between my boobs, but off to the right just enough to drive me crazy whenever I see it. The other two are positioned on my left side such that I can't see them without a mirror. Which is a good thing considering how much the first annoys me.

As I wasn't sufficiently defaced at this point, out came a black sharpie, with which the nurse drew three "X"s. Each was covered with a semi-permanent sticker that generally lasted two weeks before becoming a gooey mess of insufficient accuracy. Both the tattoos and "X" were carefully placed with the help of imaging machines and green lasers. After all the careful marking, the nurse announced that there was a problem with the placement of the tattoos. EXCUSE ME? YOU MESSED UP TATTOOING ME? The nurse ran off to see if the physics could be changed. I agreed that it was better to change physics than to try to go anywhere near me with the ink again.

Ultimately, the physics were successfully changed. In English, this means that the exact position and sequence of radiation was somehow altered to conform to the problematic tattoos and the nurse wasn't bludgeoned to death in the parking lot.

My daily appointment was scheduled for 920 every weekday morning in the dungeon of the hospital. Matt was kind enough to drive me to every appointment, as I developed a severe allergy to hospitals that causes me to drive directly to work without stopping for treatment. As an added bonus, this meant his car was valeted instead of mine.

Surprisingly, the radiation treatment room actually met my expected level of scienciness. Precisely mounted green lasers beam across the room from three walls and the ceiling. The machine itself, which takes up over half of the room, has a large, circular head looming over the patient table. On either side of the head, retractable imaging equipment is mounted. The table, and often the victim wedged in the mold on the table, is raised, rotated, and slid in various directions until the subject is correctly positioned under the head. When properly positioned, the head can rotate freely around the table. As the head rotates, lead slides in the head move back and forth to limit the block all but the necessary radiation.

Most days of radiation were boring. I'd lie topless on the table while 2-3 technicians admired my spots and rearranged me into the perfect position. After draping a blanket over my exposed parts, they'd leave, closing the bank vault door behind them, and I'd fall asleep for fifteen minutes.

One morning things suddenly got very interesting. The machine suddenly shutdown, mid treatment. The techs couldn't restore power, much less lower the table. Ultimately, I got to climb down with the help of a wobbly chair. The hospital had a new power supply flown in from Las Vegas, but the repair technician wasn't able to get the machine running for two days. Since I couldn't skip most of one dose and the following day's dose, I ended up in the slightly less awesome machine the next day. Why was it less awesome? The alignment lasers were red and the head didn't rotate around my torso. But mostly due to the red lasers.

Most people only get tired during radiation. I got super nauseous. Dr. RadiationOncologist said that radiation, especially the type I was receiving, doesn't cause severe, persistent nausea, and sent me to Dr. Oncologist. Dr. Oncologist put me through a whole battery of tests. CT scan, ultrasounds, blood tests, and whatever else occurred to her. Everything was negative, and I was still randomly regurgitating at inopportune moments. An MRI wasn't possible due to the metal in Frankenboob's expander. And yet, aside from wanting to barf and the whole cancer thing, I was perfectly healthy. With everything else ruled out, Dr. Oncologist reconsidered the radiation as the culprit. She found a case from five or six years ago in which a patient receiving the same type of radiation  was persistently nauseous. The recommended treatment was suck it up until radiation is over. 

I got another round of sick leave, complete with the requisite lying on the couch complaining. At one point I asked Matt if this is what chemo was like. He just laughed and said that I was cognizant enough to complain, so it wasn't even close. After a few vomit filled weeks, radiation ended. A few days after that, I was noticeably better. A week later, my stomach was back to its normal malcontent self and I was happily back at work, having survived radiation, but without any spiffy super powers. Boo.

04 July 2012

One boob or two?

tagged under with No comments

When I get super excited about something, I fail to shut up about it. When I get really pissed about something, I similarly fail to shut up about it. When the moon continues its orbit around the earth, I continue blabbing on and on. However, when something upsets and me and leaves me sad and miserable, I just might close my trap. The most relavent example of this phenomenon occurred just a few months ago.

First, some background. Frankenboob was already inflated to nearly 500cc, the initial volume of the expander. The expander is made of magical stretchy stuff and can hold 1500cc, a disgustingly large size for someone of my stature. My untrained eye was perfectly happy with 500cc, which seemed to match my unmolested right boob. Dr. PlasticSurgeon, who is more versed in choosing boob sizes, pointed out that radiation causes the muscle and skin to shrink, making one or two more inflations necessary.

Anyway, there I was, innocently lying topless on the examination table while Dr. PlasticSurgeon and her minion examined Frankenboob. The horrible latitudinal scar is about 1/3 down from the top. Ergo, the best way for the skin to accomodate inflations is for the skin above the scar to stretch down. But Frankenboob would have none of that. It didn't even stretch the skin on both sides. Oh no, it had to be impudent and stretch only the bottom skin, widening the scar and making everything red and miserable.  As a result, there would be no further inflations.

To top it off, my stupid insurance company refused to authorize the radiation being scheduled by Dr. RadiationOncologist. Why? According to them, the type of radiation requested is "experimental" and not indicated after "breast conserving surgery." That's right, the same people who paid over $100,000 mere months ago for a mastectomy were claiming that I had two boobs.

The situation was by far not worst I'd experienced in recent memory, but it was enough to make me shut down. I stopped caring about writing. I stopped caring about my few remaining hobbies that didn't require me to leave the house. Oh sure, I still complained about doctor stuff when around other people, but I stopped inflicting the gory details upon unsuspecting masses. As one person at work pointed out, I was a lot more serious about my medical prospects.

I won't claim to have freed myself from the ups and downs of depression, especially since I'm currently lying facedown in the bottom of a trough. Despite this week being awful, the overall trend has been upward. Sadly, the contents of my stomach have also shown the same upward trend, but that's a physical problem, not a mental one.

24 March 2012

Reese the Kraken!

tagged under , with 2 comments

A certain puppy decided to inconvenience us by outgrowing her collar while not growing enough to fit a medium Google collar. The nerve! To teach her a lesson, we took the Mutt Brigade to Petco to find a Reese-appropriate collar.

At first, Reese was nose to the floor, enjoying the myriad of smells. And then it dawned on her - FOOD!

Luckily for her, we had no idea where the collars happened to be, so she got to vacuum up the entire store. A morsel of something under a shelf three inches off the ground? That's no problem for the amazing collapsible puppy!

She managed to get in up to her shoulders before she reached her buried treasure. The amazing part? She got back out without any help.

While Zero subtly suggested we buy ALL THE BONES, Reese got into an argument with a cardboard dog food ad featuring a four foot tall dog. At first we thought it was funny, but as we neared the cutout, it became obvious that she was scared of the monstrous dog. In fact, she was so terrified that she refused to get within ten feet of the offending display. Matt end up carrying the distraught puppy until the beast was out of sight.

We finally found the collars, right by the entrance. We only passed them twelve times, but we don't need to talk about that.

Reese carefully inspected the merchandise before selecting a dainty black collar with pink skulls. Much to her embarrassment, Matt tried it on her for size right there in the aisle!

"Daddy! What if the other dogs see me?" But once it was on, she couldn't help but pose for the camera.

You'll note how Zero, like any sensible male, completely ignored the impromptu fashion show.

Before Reese had a chance to change her mind and ask for a skimpy leather collar, we paraded over to the cashier. That's when we discovered that Reese had conveniently left her wallet at home. That little bitch!

As long as I'm sharing photos with the world, here's two more featuring fluffy creatures.

Someone who is not me left an empty carton of cookie dough ice cream in the living room. Someone else who is also not me got her head stuck in the carton. It was too funny to not take a picture before helping her get free. And as soon as it was off, she stuck her furry head back in there! Not the fittest.

Where's Matt? I'll give you one hint: he's behind one of the 53" plush teddy bears. I wanted to bring a few home for the dogs, but Matt said no. He never likes my amazing ideas.

02 March 2012

"Stop it or you might pop another boob!"

tagged under , with 1 comment

That's what Matt said when I refused to stop trying to yank open the stupid car door. He ended up opening the door for me, while I retaliated by kicking the door. It totally deserved it.

Meanwhile, Frankenboob has been inflated a total of three times, for a total of 370cc. It's now more ovular than ever, so I had to go buy a couple of new sports bras that would normally be way too big. For some reason, Victoria's Secret doesn't make anything for the irregularly shaped boob.

A weird bump of skin is poking out at the left end of the scar. It's gotten more pronounced with every inflation, even though I've tried to poke it flat. According to Dr. PlasticSurgeon, it's called a dog ear, and is caused by a pleat forming when the skin was stitched back together by Dr. Surgeon. She made sure to stress the part about Dr. Surgeon causing it. But not to worry, she can easily erase its existence when creating the nipple.

Reese, who finds it necessary to say hello to every dog in a five-mile radius, clearly heard about of Frankenboob's dog ear. Sadly, her version of first contact involved stepping directly on Frankenboob while in our bed this past Monday. Not understanding why I suddenly started screaming, she immediately froze. Matt, sensing something was amiss, came bursting out of the bathroom and removed the offending paw, along with the rest of the puppy.

Reese feins innocence, sleeping with what's left of her favorite toy.
Oddly enough, I woke the next morning to find a multicolored Frankenboob. And did I mention it hurt? As the day progressed, it changed from purple to a nice red. Time to call the doctor!

By that point, I had completely forgotten about Reese's attempt to compress Frankenboob into a singularity. All I could think of was that it hurt and it was an odd color, even by Frankenboob standards. Luckily, Dr. PlasticSurgeon's secretary happens to be my neighbor and knows that both Reese and Zero can be jumpy when excited. Perhaps one of them did it? How on earth I managed to forget that, I'll never know.

Since I already had an inflation appointment scheduled for the next day, I decided that I could wait a day for a thorough medical probing. In the meantime, I could continue taking prescription levels of ibuprofen out of an OTC Advil bottle.

At today's appointment, it took Dr. PlasticSurgeon about three femtoseconds to locate the point of impact. And then she jabbed it with a stick! Or she just lightly touched it to make sure nothing was horribly amiss.

Apparently it isn't the best of ideas to inflate a bruised boob, so that was delayed until next week. For today, her minion was dispatched to fetch the brown tape (as opposed to the white tape). I'm not entirely sure how it works, but a few pieces of tape are holding the bruised area in stasis such that it can heal in a more timely fashion.

In other news, this morning I inadvertently discovered that I can flex Frankenboob! It looks very similar to videos of Chippendale dancers flexing their pectoral muscles, except there's a boob on top. And no, I can't flex the right. Believe me, I've tried.

Frankenboob is a more appropriate name than I thought

tagged under with 2 comments

Shockingly, I was still taking Percoset the Monday after my first inflation. It was a mere week and a half since Frankenboob's excoriation, and just over two since Frankenboob's creation. Therefore, it was time for something disastrous to happen.

Matt drags me out of the house most days. While he claims it's for my benefit, I strongly suspect he just wants to get himself out the house. On that fateful Monday, it was definitely not me who benefited. The mistake was stopping at a 7-Eleven on the way home. A giant guy accidentally elbowed me in the Frankenboob! He immediately turned around and apologized, so it would have been a bit rude to kick him in the balls.

Somehow I made it make to the car without screaming, though my eyes did tear up. When we finally got home, a visual inspection didn't make me feel any better. A bruise was forming, and there was clearly a dent at the site of the impact.

The new disaster area continued to throb the next day. Time to call the doctor! Dr. PlasticSurgeon assured me that the expander requires much more than a giant elbow infraction to pop, so I needn't worry about that. As for the pain, the area had just experienced two traumatic surgeries and was therefore much more vulnerable. A small bump that I would otherwise barely notice could cause severe pain in these circumstances. I should just keep popping pills, and the extra pain would go away in three to four days. Woohoo.

Later that week, at inflation appointment number two, Dr. PlasticSurgeon confirmed that the world wasn't ending. She also pumped another 100cc of sterile saline into the expander, bringing the total to 270cc. That's when I discovered I was supposed to take a Valium before arriving, not just afterwards. At least I'm running low on things to go wrong. Or so I thought.

I never found out if Dr. PlasticSurgeon ended up needing the allograft, so I made the mistake of asking. As it turned out, my pectoral muscle was a fairly normal length, also known as not long enough to fully cover the expander. A collagen allograft was used to finish the job.

What is a collagen allograft? It's a piece of cadaver in which the actual living cells have been removed, leaving a collagen honeycomb. Since there aren't any living cells, it's technically not a transplant, though it goes through the same screening process. However, it did come from a dead person. That's right, Frankenboob is made with a piece of a dead guy! I just hope no one named Igor was involved in the collection process.

Before I left, Dr. PlasticSurgeon examined the scar. She declared that the was skin finished healing, though I have my doubts. Plus, I'm not exactly a fan of a giant red scar. Not to worry, it will mostly be concealed when the doctor creates a nipple. How? I have no idea. But she seemed confident that it would work.
Subscribe to: Posts (Atom)