My ovaries are so gosh darn efficient at making the stuff, you'd think I moved the production line offshore to Bangladesh. So as a manager of a veritable oestrogen sweatshop, I should be pretty good at making kids. Or making kids work - depends on how irritable I feel on the day I suppose, and how far you take the sweatshop analogy.
And because I happen to run a tight production line on the old oestrogen conveyor belt, some of my healthy cells who ordered the oestrogen had a field day and got drunk on the stuff. So drunk they turned green and strong and angry and went "Mutated cells, SMASH!"
Damn it. I'm mixing up my analogies. And also my comic book hero stories. The Hulk turned into the Hulk from a Gamma bomb, not from alcohol, although his dad did used to beat up on his mum. Aaaaanyway, what I am saying is I may or may not have just renamed my breast cancer "Bruce Banner" for no good reason.
So what does this have to do with stuff in general? Well ok. Let's start talking about what I did today, and maybe it will make more sense. I'll get the boring margin results out of the way first, cos I know you want to know about that, and then we'll get onto my visit to reproductive services.
First on the list today was to head into the Royal Women's to get my results on the second margin clearing surgery from a week ago. GUESS WHAT??? They cleared the margin by a WHOPPING 0.2 of a MILLIMETRE!! 0.2mm guys!!! That's HUGE!!!
Oh hang on..... no. No, it's not.
0.2mm is like, less than a millimetre. LESS THAN A MILLIMETRE! How can you get less than a millimetre?? How does that even exist?
It's not even HALF of a millimetre! ie. It's LESS than half of a millimetre.
In fact, it's LESS than HALF of HALF a millimetre.
I don't know about you, but I don't even own a ruler that would ever be able to measure that small a measurement. I'll write it out for you in words, so that you actually understand how ridiculous that measurement sounds even when it's typewritten:
There was a precancerous spot that was sitting ZERO POINT TWO OF A MILLIMETRE away from the surface of the slice of boob that they took out of me in last Monday's second surgery.
So what does this mean? Well essentially, the actual surface of the margin is surgically clear - where they put the ink on to test the cells, that is officially clear - but my cancer fighting posse, who is meeting in a big group to discuss me tomorrow, will look at the slide and see if they are happy with the margin being that ridiculously close. There is only a small chance, but there is a chance they MAY decide to throw me back onto that cushy cushy operating table again for a third time next Monday. It is an unlikely chance, considering they did "officially" clear the margin, but it's a possible, considering that spot was only 0.2mm away from where they cut. Oh yeah - the other one was 0.5mm away, so there were two worrying spots, but I think the 0.2 one was the ridiculous one. So we will know for sure tomorrow afternoon. Sigh. OK.
Part two of today's exciting day at the Royal Women's had me in a reproductive doctor's office. Now warning: this might get a little personal here guys (cos it's not as if the other posts have been personal at all, right?). And here is where the bit about me being an oestrogen factory becomes important.
As we have already ascertained, my cancer is very very hormone receptive to both Oestrogen and Progesterone - or as we say in "the biz": ER+ PR+.
When I say very receptive, we're talking a whopping 95% receptive to both hormones. Or as we say in "the biz": ER +95%, PR+95%.
And although I was being facetious when I said the word "whopping" before about the 0.2mm clearance, in this case, I mean it. 95% is pretty darn receptive. It even sounds receptive. It's like the cells have a table set up at the front there, with a nice smiley hostess welcoming the oestrogen with a glass of sparkling and caviar. I mean, they're a LITTLE bit exclusive, you know - they consider at least 5% of the hormones to be riffraff, but generally, they are a mostly open club, to ER and PR.
So my cancer posse have all agreed that I will therefore need to be on a medication that will block my cells from taking up my oestrogen, a medication called Tamoxifen. And here is how it will work:
The Oestrogen will knock on the door to the cells, and the bouncers on the cells be all like, "Yeah, you can't come in. New management. Oh, hey oxygen and glucose, nice to see you, you can cut the line, have a great night. NO, NOT YOU, OESTROGEN! You're not on the door list anymore." And the oestrogen be all like, "That's racist, dude! We've been coming here for years! And we've been waiting here in line for like, an HOUR! And you let others in! It's not as if it's FULL in there or anything!" And the bouncers will look the oestrogen up and down as if they are turds that have rolled themselves in turd shit, and the oestrogen will feel shamed and pissed off and leave, vowing to never wait in another stupid line again. But everyone knows, they will be back there in line again, because everyone wants to feel as if they are the cool ones that got into the club.
I will be on Tamoxifen for 5 - 10 years. Let me write that out again, so that the full impact may be felt. FIVE. TO TEN. YEARS!!!! This wonder drug, which will mimic for me the "highly desirable" symptoms of menopause (it won't put me into menopause, but will mimic it), will be extremely effective in making sure this bitch of a cancer won't come back. Therefore no more "Mutated cells, SMASH!!!", just good old Bruce Banner before he got Gamma'd up.
So my cancer fighting posse want to stop oestrogens right? That means no getting pregnant cos that's a no no a big no no a massive no no no no no no no for a minimum of five years for Schwarczie who is already 41 years old (yes I had a birthday).
In fact, pretty sure they would prefer me to not get pregnant at all. Ever.
Why? Because, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, what do we need to make babies??
Sigh.... Yes. A penis and a vagina. You're right. But I mean apart from that, what do need for a baby to grow in a mummy's belly??
That's right boys and girls!! Oestrogen!! Not just any old amount of oestrogen, but lots and lots and lots and lots of oestrogen!! Lots and lots! So no making babies for Ms Lana Banana! Oh no! She can preTEND to make babies, but she can't gestate them! Because then the oestrogen will overrun the bouncers.
So perhaps she would like to go see a fertility specialist, because perhaps there are options that perhaps she would like to take?
OK, you know what? I like babies! I can even say with absolute truth and honesty that I LOVE and ADORE babies! But what I love about babies MOST of all is the ability to give them back. I work with kids and I have all the time in the world for them, but I've never felt that ache that so many women feel to have one of my own.
It's just how I've always felt - just, kind of ambivalent about it all - if one happens to stumble into my life's path, then that's great and I will love my child more than anything (ok, if we're realistic, perhaps not more than Tyson), but I've never "needed" it, and I've never felt as if I was missing out on a great life experience by not having them, so it was pretty much a life choice to not have them.
And thank god for that! Because if I wanted a baby now that I know I am entering into a stage of finality about the decision, I'd be awfully torn and sad and depressed. Because although there are indeed options for me if I wanted to form a family line of my own specific DNA, EVERY SINGLE ONE of those options mean there is a massive probability of my cancer recurring, like, a MASSIVE probability of another cancer baby forming, and there would only be a 5% chance of a live human baby forming from one of my eggs. There are in truth several options I can explore (though less so as I am over 35), but it's complicated, and the upshot of all those options basically means I am risking my life if I choose to make a new life that has a bit of myself in it. And what kind of a life would that be for the new life, if the new life had to deal with me getting cancer again?
So it all seemed a little bit selfish to me, if I was to make that decision to have a baby with those probabilities.
But all those feelings - those very sensible and well thought out, unemotional feelings - might very well change in time. And that's why I went to see the reproductive specialist today. And that's why I got them to take a blood test to check my ovarian reserve and to talk to my oncological team about whether they would be ok with me going through a heavy oestrogen cycle, just in case. To see what my options are. Because, you know, just in case. Just in case, I might somehow change my mind, even though I don't think I will.
So I went to the fertility specialist because the funny thing is, my decision to thus far not have babies has been my own conscious one, but weirdly, when you are suddenly told with certainty, that now you CAN'T? Well then the feminist side of me arcs up, and wants to challenge that. Cos nobody tells a feminist she can't do something.
But when this feminist weighed up the options given by the specialist, it seemed pretty clear cut:
This feminist is one day gonna make a pretty amazing aunt*. And she is gonna love every second of it.
Before she gives the baby back.
* (hopefully that is.... no pressure to my sister!)