Breast Cancer

Up On The Roof

After meeting Mr. Agency at the Masquerade Party, we became friends on Facebook.  That led to an email exchange, and then we began texting each other. 

Mr. Agency: Will you be heading to the event at the rooftop on Wednesday?

I hadn’t planned to go.  But, I knew that two of my friends would be there and definitely wanted to see Mr. Agency.  So, I decided to purchase a ticket and let him know that I would be attending.

That afternoon, I found myself smiling, as I looked at the photo of us that was taken only a few minutes after we met.  In perusing one of Mr. Agency’s albums, I noticed two pictures of him with a good friend of mine, T. 

Since I didn’t know Mr. Agency well, I decided to do a bit of reconnaissance.  (With surgery less than a week away and treatment on the horizon, I didn’t need to date my usual narcissistic and controlling types.)  As it turned out, T has known Mr. Agency for almost a decade and had nothing but great things to say about him.  My friend, Misty, also concurred with T’s assessment.  I felt comforted by the fact that the seemingly warm and genuine guy that I had met at the party was just that! 

On Wednesday night, I arrived at the event and tried to look as sexy as I could in the 94-degree heat.  I said hello to some acquaintances before greeting Mr. Agency at the back bar.  He approached me with a huge smile, a hug and a kiss on the cheek.  He was with a colleague so we exchanged pleasantries about sports and politics.  Our conversation was easy, and I found myself smiling – a lot.

Mr. Agency and I thankfully managed to have a fair amount of one-on-one time at the event.  The topic turned to summer vacations, and he asked if I was heading out of DC at all.

Me: Well, not this summer.  I’m not sure if you saw on Facebook that I have breast cancer.

Mr. Agency: I did.  Will you be okay?

Me: Yes.  Everything was caught early, but I need a little surgery next week and then I’ll start treatment.

We talked for another minute or two about it, and that was it.  There had been a part of me that was hesitant to share what was going on with a man I didn’t know well, but I realized that it didn’t need to be a big deal. 

As the moon illuminated the rooftop and the drinks kept flowing, Mr. Agency and I talked and laughed with a few friends.  One of them brought up my blog and how she hadn’t expected it to be so racy.

Me [laughing]: I’ve heard that before.  Misty and I were at L2 one time, and these people were like, ‘How racy is it?’  Misty looked at them without blinking an eye and said, ‘I've learned a lot about anal from City Girl.’  They were speechless!

Mr. Agency laughed with the group, but it was far from the right time to ask him if he enjoyed anal as much as I did ;).  I wasn’t sure if he had looked at my blog before this evening, but I had to assume that he would check it out now.  And, although I hoped that he didn’t rush home to read about every past sexcapade, I was fine with him knowing about my site.

T and I decided to head out to get some food.  Before we left, Mr. Agency came up to me and said:

It was great seeing you tonight, but I hope that we can hang out alone next time.  Are you around this weekend?

Me [smiling]: Yes, I am.  I’d like that.

Mr. Agency: Good.  I’ll call you.

As T and I drove to Marvin, I received a text from Mr. Exec’s best friend, Best Boy.  (We had been texting each other earlier since he had been considering coming to the rooftop event.)

Best Boy: You still at the event?

Me: Just left.  Going to Marvin.  Where are you?

Best Boy: Ceiba.  [A restaurant that’s not far from Marvin.]

Me: Come by :).

Best Boy: Okay. Finishing my drink.

This night was far from over.

To be continued…

Round Two

Her hair is gone now.  In only four days, she has lost half of her long, thick red mane.  She donates the rest to Locks of Love and shaves her head.  She thinks that losing her hair will make her incomprehensibly sad, and yet, it doesn't.  She finds a way to rock the G.I. Jane cut and realizes that she doesn't need her hair to be sexy.

Prior to her second round of chemotherapy, she calls her oncologist and has her internist do the same.  She is not going to go through such a horrible round of chemo – complete with three days of vomiting and IVs – again.

Her oncologist finally takes her seriously and appreciates that her health history makes her a unique patient.  He orders three days of IVs after chemotherapy, but decides to administer those IVs proactively (before she gets sick), rather than reactively.  He also gives her five new drugs to take during chemo week.

She hopes that the second round will be better, but it's just different.  Side effects from the drugs cause her to be irritable and suffer from temporary amnesia.  For five days, she walks around like a moody, forgetful zombie.  She has little, if any, memory of conversations she had or emails she sent during those days.  The Type-A lawyer who is used to being in control is anything but that.

Her body responds to chemotherapy in the opposite manner of most people.  The average patient is exhausted.  She can’t sleep for more than six hours a night and isn't able to nap much.  The typical female never gets her period again following chemo.  She starts to hemorrhage.  Most people lose weight from chemotherapy.  She gains weight.  In 20 days, she has only one day without a chemo-related side effect.  Her body is drained.

On October 26th, she loses her friend to colon cancer.  He was her partner in the fight against this disease.  In three days, she cries more than she’s cried in months.  Her heart is heavy.

Four more rounds of chemotherapy and six weeks of radiation await her.  And, she knows that nothing about the next four months will be easy.

This experience is the toughest thing that she has endured physically.  But then, she reminds herself that:

She

Is

Tougher.

She will get through this, and she is so very lucky that this was caught at Stage One.

Since early detection is what is saving her, she feels compelled to encourage her friends and readers to check the American Cancer Society’s Early Detection Guidelines.

If you notice an abnormal growth on or under your skin, get yourself to a doctor!

For the female readers:

Breast self-exams every month starting at age 20.  If you’re not sure how to do a self-exam, watch this three-minute video;

A clinical breast exam at your annual gynecologist appointment.  You should be screened for cervical cancer via a Pap smear three years after you first have sex or by the age of 21 (whichever comes first); and

Annual mammograms starting at age 35 if there’s a history of breast cancer in your family and at age 40 if there’s not.

She cares.

Diagnosis Night — Part 3

I had thought that June 22, 2010 would be a memorable day in my life because that was the day I had been diagnosed with breast cancer.  Now, I wondered if I would also remember it as the most bizarre day I had ever spent with Mr. Exec. 

I had just watched him grab another woman's ass repeatedly right in front of me.  Then, I listened to him explain that he did that for "business reasons."  I found his actions completely disrespectful, but I didn't have the energy to get into a fight with him.  I knew that we would eventually need to discuss all of this, but now was not the time.

I decided to focus on other, more innocuous matters, when I asked Mr. Exec:

So how did The Baron end up here tonight?  [The Baron and I went to law school together, and we dated briefly earlier this year.  Mr. Exec knew The Baron professionally and despised him because of his allegedly shady business practices.]

Mr. Exec: I know!  I didn't expect to see him here!

Me: I’m sure you had to restrain yourself from kicking his ass!  [We laugh.]

Mr. Exec: I didn’t realize that you had dated him.  You said that you just knew him from law school!

Me: I told you that we had gone out to dinner a few times.  That's all.

Mr. Exec: Did you fuck him?  [I look at him with a confused expression on my face.]  Did you?

Me: No.  Never.  We went out a few times before I realized that he was coke addict.  [As we're talking, I put two and two together that Mr. Exec has been reading my blog.]  Everything that happened is in my blog.

Mr. Exec: Good.  I hate the thought of you with him.

Me: I don't like the thought of it either.  Trust me!

We got into his SUV to head to the other restaurant.  Three of his friends piled in the back seat.  I was feeling quite dizzy because I needed food.  I also was exhausted and had absolutely no patience for how drunk everyone else in the car was.

When we arrived at the bar, the bartender informed us that the kitchen was closed.  Thankfully, my friend, Misty, happened to be dining there and gave me the rest of her food.

I sat with Misty, as Mr. Exec and his friends took the tables around us.  One girl asked where everyone was heading afterwards, and another girl suggested Camelot, a strip club in the neighborhood.  I heard Mr. Exec indicate that he wanted to do that, even mentioning that he and Best Boy should try to get their usual table.  [Insert eye roll here.]

A few minutes later, Mr. Exec asked me if I wanted to go to Camelot.  I politely declined without stating the obvious:

I have breast cancer.  I don't know my treatment plan yet and if I can keep my own breasts.  The LAST thing I want to do tonight is go to a strip club and look at other girls' tits.

Mr. Exec: I’ll go for a little and then come back to the house.

Me: Okay.

Mr. Exec: I’m so proud of you for coming out tonight!  [He kisses me on the lips.]  See…look what you have me doing?  I'm kissing you in public in front of my friends.  [Mr. Exec hates public displays of affection so that was actually a big deal for him.]

He insisted on putting me in a cab and gave the driver double the fare.

Mr. Exec [to the driver]: Make sure you drive very slowly and don’t stop short.  [With my Post-Concussion Syndrome, I get very bad motion sickness.]  Take very good care of her and make sure she gets home safely. 

By the time I arrived home, I felt too drained to ponder or cry about the incredibly odd end to an already tough day.  (Seriously, folks, what kind of guy goes to a strip club on the night that his girl is diagnosed with cancer?  Oh, and don't even get me started on how Mr. Exec grabs asses for professional reasons!) 

I walked my dog and went to bed.  An hour later, Mr. Exec texted to say that he was on his way to my place.

To be continued…

Diagnosis Night — Part 2

I had just been diagnosed with breast cancer several hours ago.  Now, I was at an event with Mr. Exec, watching him grab another woman’s ass not once, but FIVE, times. 

I said nothing to Mr. Exec since it wasn’t worth it.  I went up to his best friend, Best Boy, to tell him that I was leaving.

Best Boy: Don’t go.  We’re going to get some food.

Me: I thought we were going to do that, too.  I just can’t sit here and watch this tonight of all nights.  Did he [Mr. Exec] tell you what’s going on?  [Best Boy nods.]  Yeah, I’m out.  [I kiss Best Boy on the cheek goodbye.]

I walked out of the restaurant and called my friend, Autumn.  I had just finished telling her what happened when another call came in.  It was Mr. Exec.  I put Autumn on hold and answered the phone.

Mr. Exec: Come back to the restaurant.

Me: Not if I’m going to have you watch you grab some girl’s ass all night!

Mr. Exec: We’re a team.  This is business.  I don’t want to have to worry about you walking out on me again.  Come back here.

Me: Business?!?  Are you fucking kidding me?

Mr. Exec: It's business.  I’ll explain it to you when you come back here.

I was hungry, tired and so drained from the day’s events.  I didn’t want to get into a fight tonight.

Me: Fine.

I hung up with Mr. Exec and finished my call with Autumn.  By the time I returned to the restaurant, Mr. Exec and the older woman were wrapping up their conversation.  After the woman left, Mr. Exec came over to me and said:

Mr. Exec: I’m glad you came back.  Don’t ever leave me like that again!

Me: I realize that we have a unique relationship, but don’t ever do something like that again in front of me.  That was completely disrespectful!

Mr. Exec: Did you see her?  Would I ever be with someone who looked like that?

Me: Okay.  Then why did you grab her ass five times?

Mr. Exec: It’s business!  She was one of the sponsors tonight.  I need her to think that I’ll fuck her so that she keeps helping us out.  She invites me to her house and on trips with her all the time, but I never go.  I’m with you, and we’re a team.  You need to understand that I’m just playing the game.

I didn't think that was fair to the woman or the organization with which Mr. Exec volunteered.  But, I decided to let it go because my need for food trumped my need to belabor this issue.

As Mr. Exec settled up his tab, he turned to me, Best Boy and Best Boy’s friend, Melanie* and said:

On Saturday night, why don’t you two come over the house?  We’ll get some wine and order some food from…[He turns to me.]  What’s that place that we like with the good pizza?

Me: Luigi’s?

Mr. Exec: Yes.  We’ll order food, maybe get a DVD and talk some business.  [I realize at that point that “the house” is in fact “my house.”]

Me: What business?

Mr. Exec: Well, Melanie does something similar to your blog, and when I heard that, I thought it would be good if we all talked to see if there were things that we all could do together.

Me: Professionally?

Mr. Exec: Yes, of course.  You know it’s all about making money for me.

Me [laughing out loud]: Yes, I do.  But, I’m not sure if you’ll like how I plan to give 10% of whatever I earn from my blog to female-focused charities.

Mr. Exec: Well, you can give 10% of your portion away.  We don’t have to do that.

I laughed and rolled my eyes.  I wasn’t sure how I felt about involving Mr. Exec in the business aspects of my blog.  I also was uncertain how Melanie and Best Boy fit into the picture, especially since I didn't know what Melanie did professionally.  But, I didn’t need to figure that out tonight.

I thought that we would all grab a quick bite and then Mr. Exec and I would head back to my place.  Unfortunately, things don’t always work out as planned.

To be continued…

* I gave Best Boy's girl the nickname of "Melanie." In retrospect, that might have been confusing since my web designer's real name is Melanie. They are not one in the same.

Diagnosis Night

On June 22, 2010, I received the call from my doctor, informing me that I had early-stage breast cancer.  When I hung up the phone, I called two of my best friends.  Although I had plans that evening to go to an event with Mr. Exec, my girlfriends and I decided to meet so that we could process the news together.

Mr. Exec was helping to organize the event, and I didn’t want to ruin his evening.  I sent him a text, apologizing for not being able to make it and asking him to call me afterward.  He knew me well enough to know that something was wrong and called me right away.

Mr. Exec: Tell me what’s going on.  Did you hear from the doctor?

Me: Yes.

Mr. Exec: What did she say?

Me: It’s early-stage breast cancer.

[Long pause.]

I didn’t want to tell you until later, though, since you have a big night ahead of you.

Mr. Exec: I’m glad you told me.  You know that I want to know everything that’s going on.  We’ll get through this together.

Me: I know.

Mr. Exec then asked me what the next steps were.  I told him as much as I knew at that point and asked if he could come over the following evening.

Mr. Exec: Of course.

I headed up to my apartment and proceeded to call one of my girlfriends.  The more we talked, the more I realized that I didn’t want or need to sit around with my girls that night crying.  I wasn’t dying.  I didn’t even know what my treatment plan would be yet.  It didn’t seem constructive to expend a lot of emotion over unknown variables.

I decided to meet my girlfriends the following day for lunch and go to the event as planned.  I took some time to cry and call a few other friends before I got dressed and walked over to the restaurant where the event was being held.  When I arrived at the venue, I noticed a very tall man by the doorway. 

“Oh My God!” I exclaimed to myself.  “What’s The Baron doing here?”

The Baron and I had gone to law school together back in the 1990s.  We reconnected earlier this year and went out several times.  The “relationship” was doomed from the start, though.

I found it especially surprising that The Baron was at this event since he and Mr. Exec don’t get along for reasons Mr. Exec told me on our first date.  When I walked inside, I said a quick hello to The Baron so as not to seem rude, but I kept it at that.  (What else more was there to say to him by this point?)  

I then scanned the room and noticed a lot of friends were there.  I naturally went over to Mr. Exec first.

Me [to the woman to whom Mr. Exec was talking]: Excuse me.  I don’t mean to interrupt.  I just wanted to say a quick hello to Mr. Exec.

Mr. Exec [smiling with a look of surprise]: You came?  I’m so glad!  [He gives me a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek.]

Mr. Exec returned to his conversation, and I ordered a soda and caught up with a girlfriend.  When Mr. Exec finished, he came over to me, gave me another hug and said:

I’m so proud of you!  It means so much to me that you came tonight, and it says so much about how you’ll approach this.  You’re not going to let this get the best of you!  [I nod my head in agreement.]  I’m going to take you home later and fuck the shit out of you!

Me [smiling]: That’s just what I wanted to hear.

Two hours later, the event was winding down, and I was starving.  The plan was to go get food with Mr. Exec, his best friend, Best Boy, and Best Boy’s date, Melanie*.  Best Boy, Melanie and I were ready to go, but Mr. Exec was still schmoozing and drinking.  I was getting a bit light-headed as I often do when I need to eat so when Mr. Exec finished talking to a colleague, I approached him.

Me [to Mr. Exec]: Can we go now?  I really need some food.

Mr. Exec: Sure.  Let me go to the restroom and then we can leave.

As Mr. Exec walked to the restroom, a woman approached him.  She was in her mid-late 40s, had a very toned body and dressed like a cougar.  I watched their interaction from across the bar. 

As they were talking, she put her arm around Mr. Exec’s waist.  He put his arm around her waist.  She placed her other hand on his chest and started playing with the buttons on his shirt.  He moved his hand from her waist to her ass.  She took her hand from his chest to his waist and put her hand underneath his shirt.  She started rubbing the small of his back.  He squeezed her ass.

I wasn’t sure what to make of any of this, but it didn’t sit well with me.  I felt like I was watching a movie and wanted a better view.  I moved my seat around so that I could look right at them.  I wasn’t particularly close so they didn’t notice that I was staring as I saw Mr. Exec grab her ass a second time.

Then a third.

Then a fourth.

And then a fifth.

By the fifth ass grab, I was done!  I walked up to Best Boy and Melanie, gave them both hugs and said:

I’m leaving.  I don’t need to sit around watching this.  Have a good night.

To be continued…

* I gave Best Boy's girl the nickname of "Melanie." In retrospect, that might have been confusing since my web designer's real name is Melanie. They are not one in the same.

Tomorrow

I was up in Friendship Heights last week, when I received the call from my oncologist's office. The physician's assistant tried as kindly as she could to break the news to me:

So…the lab finally got back to us with the results. You're HER2 positive. [HER2 is one of the most aggressive forms of breast cancer.]

Me: I had a feeling.

We decided that I would have a mediport installed on Friday, September 17th. [A mediport is a device that's implanted under the skin and allows easy access to your veins.] And then, she scheduled me for my first of six chemotherapy sessions on Tuesday, September 21st.

When I hung up the phone, I leaned against the window of an empty storefront and sobbed for a few minutes. You know those cries where your whole body shakes? Yeah, it was that kind of cry.

Two people walked by me. I sensed that they wanted to stop, but didn't know what to say. I guess that I didn't know what to say either. (Well, besides the word, "fuck.")

I haven't cried that much since Friday, but I feel unsettled. I'm starting chemo tomorrow. There are days in which I love watching the clock move forward hour-by-hour. But, I'm watching the hours pass today as though I'm waiting for the bell to toll.

I don't want chemo. At all.

I don't want to worry about how my already weakened immune system will react to chemotherapy. I don't want to be more nauseous than I already am on a given week. I don't want to wonder if I'll fall within the 15% of people who lose their hair on this type of treatment.

Did I mention that I don't want it?

On the night after I got the port put in, my man came over to my place. The port surprisingly hurts a lot, and he's never seen me in this much pain. I was in so much pain that I didn't even want to orgasm or have sex. Me!

Me: You realize that this is going to get a lot worse, right?

Him: Yes, and I'll be here for you.

Me: I just feel really vulnerable now. Like I don't want cancer to be the reason why we don't work out.

Him: That's not going to happen.

Me: If I'm bald?

Him: I'll help you find a hot wig. Some look that you've always wanted to try. You are going to look sexy no matter what!

Me [smiling as I bury my head in his chest]: Maybe…what if I lose my sex drive?

Him: That's not going to happen with you.

Me [laughing out loud]: Misty joked that if I lose my sex drive I would still have a normal person's drive.

Him: Exactly. And, if you lose your drive, then it just means that I have to work harder.

I kissed him, as I fought back tears. It must be karma or God's way of balancing my life out that in the midst of fighting cancer, my relationship with my man and my blog are better than ever!

As I think about the months that lie ahead, I can't help but feel grateful for early diagnosis and great medical care. I realize that there could have been a much different ending to this story. I also appreciate that the treatment that I will undergo in the coming months is to ensure that I'll be around for decades to come. I owe it to myself, my loved ones and the child I will adopt to be as strong as I can and do whatever possible to live a very long life.

Yesterday, I was interviewed for a breast cancer documentary. The producers asked me how breast cancer affected me and three words came to mind:

Vanity; Advocacy and Humanity.

I feel blessed to have such an outpouring of support from friends and readers. On the advocacy front, I know that I will be doing more with the issue of toxic ingredients in sex toys. I'm a sex blogger with breast cancer and a penchant for helping others. I anticipate speaking out about the use of cancer-causing phthalates in adult toys…under my real name.

But first, I need to kick this cancer thing. And, vanity requires me to do that with my own long red locks.

xoxo

I’m too vain for this!

After my Mom was diagnosed with terminal cancer in 1997, we went to Memorial Sloan-Kettering Hospital for a second opinion. As we waited in the lobby, we couldn't help but notice that one out of every third or fourth person in the waiting room:

Was bald from chemotherapy;
Had jaundice (a yellow complexion) from liver failure;
Had a large, visible tumor; and/or
Was missing a limb.

Quite a few of these patients were children, which only added to the horrifying image. As she looked around the room, my Mom brought her perfectly manicured fingers to her ears and clutched her carat diamond studs. She closed her eyes, shaking her head back and forth, as she said:

I'm too vain for this. I'm too vain for this.

An hour later, the oncologist informed my Mom that she wasn't a candidate for any treatment. In a manner void of all compassion, he told her:

Make an appointment for two months from now, and if you're still alive, we'll see you then. (And, yes, the doctor really said that.)

Two months later to the week, my Mom passed away.

Since I was diagnosed with breast cancer in June, I've tried not to compare my cancer to my Mom's. Her cancer wasn't caught until stage four, whereas mine was caught at stage one. I have breast cancer, which is very treatable when caught early. My Mom had cancer of unknown primary, which is rarely treatable. She did not survive cancer, and I know I will survive it.

On Tuesday, I went to Sibley Hospital for my breast cancer surgery. Because it's me and I attract the type of guys that I do, my man and I proceeded to have a relationship discussion via text for two hours while I was at the hospital. (If I could've taken my cell phone into the operating room, I would have. And, we probably would have continued to bicker at each other the entire time. I'll definitely be writing all about this in future posts!)

The surgery involved removing the two cancerous areas and two lymph nodes. As surgeries go, it wasn't that bad, and I'm recouping nicely. I'm thrilled to report that there's no cancer in my lymph nodes. That means that the cancer is confined to the right breast, and that it's not stage two. [Insert happy dance here.]

But, after speaking with the doctor today, there's some news that's not so good. When the doctor removed the cancerous areas, she also removed some healthy tissue or a "margin." The margin needs to be a certain distance from the cancerous area to ensure that all the bad cells have been taken and reduce the risk of recurrence. When the pathology report came back, it showed that one margin was smaller than it needed to be. So, I need to go back into the hospital this month for another surgery to remove more breast tissue. [Insert frustrated face here.]

But wait, there's more! The pathology report also showed that the tumor is medium-grade, which means that it's more aggressive than the biopsy had previously indicated. When the doctor told me this today, I immediately started to cry, as I asked:

So, that means that it's almost definite that I need to have chemo?

Doctor: Yes. You're 37, and we need to be conservative and treat this aggressively. I want you to adopt, to model…

Me [interrupting her]: I know. Just the agent wanted a tall redhead, not a tall bald head. [Pause.] I'm just sad out of vanity.

Doctor: I would be sad, too. I wouldn't want to lose my hair either.

Me [exhaling]: But, you're right. I'll do whatever I need to do to kick this so I can be around for my little girl and do all the things that I want to do with my life for decades to come.

The logical side of my brain knows that I will beat this and that chemotherapy is the strongest treatment available to prevent a recurrence. But, that doesn't mean that the thought of chemo is easy for me.

My hair is my signature. Have you seen it recently?

And, there's a 99% chance that I'm going to lose all of it! I don't want to hear any of the following right now:

It'll grow back;
You can get a wig; or
It'll be okay.

I'll be fine in the end, but for lack of a more eloquent expression, this sucks. I'm allowing myself to cry and be as angry as I want to be this weekend, and then I'm letting it go. I haven't lost my hair yet, and until I do, I'm going to make sure that it looks especially fabulous!

And, when I get the official word as to my treatment schedule, I will lose my hair in a way that promotes awareness for breast cancer and raises money for research. There will also be a Happy Hour thrown in because that's just how I roll ;).

As I reflect on the day's events and what lies ahead, I realize:

I am my mother's daughter. I'm too vain for this.

I am my mother's daughter. I will use my experiences to help other women and causes I believe in.

I am my mother's daughter. I will come out of this stronger, and when I adopt, I will teach my daughter all that my mom taught me.

PS I'm off to get ready for my man. It's me. I won't let cancer keep me down for long! xoxo

Stage 1. Not so fun.

I've been thinking a lot about the different hats that I wear. I'm a relationship and sex blogger. I'm the in-house product reviewer for Dascha Boutique and a sexuality educator for Fascinations at Fun Love. I'm a non-practicing attorney who will still talk about the law ad nauseum and answer her former clients' calls at any hour of the day. I'm a sports fan, a dog lover, a cupcake and pizza fiend, a girly-girl, and an anal ambassador. And now, I'm a 37-year-old with breast cancer.

I don't want my cancer to define me, but for the past few weeks, cancer has dictated my schedule. I'm not looking for this blog to turn into a blog about cancer, but ignoring it is about as easy as ignoring "Buckeyes" Boy or any proverbial elephant in the room.

Since last I wrote about my diagnosis, I've had a few more tests, and the doctors have gathered some additional information. A second area of cancer was found so instead of DCIS non-invasive breast cancer, I now have Stage 1, invasive breast cancer.

This was still found early, and I know how lucky I am. But, the fact that there's now cancer in my breast tissue complicates things a bit. My surgery — originally scheduled for today — has been postponed. I need more biopsies this week and am waiting for results of the breast cancer gene test (BRCA) before I know the plan of attack.

I continue to feel my feelings as I need to without dwelling on them. And, I'm thankful for so many blessings, including my friends, great health care and early diagnosis. But, since I received the call from the doctor yesterday that the cancer is now in my breast tissue, I've wondered:

Will I lose my hair?

Even typing those words brings tears to my eyes. I admit it, I'm vain. I love my hair. What did "Buckeyes" Boy first notice about me? My hair! How did people on Twitter recognize me in real life even though I've never posted a picture of my face? By my hair! Why did the modeling agent think she could book me for work? Because I'm a tall redhead!

Is there a theme here?

Philly Matt told me this evening that he thinks I would be sexy if I was bald. And, I love him for that. But, it doesn't change the fact that seriously thinking about chemotherapy brings tears to my eyes. It's not a given that chemo will be the recommended course of treatment for me, but I don't like that it's even an option.

And, that's not the only thing that's on my mind:

A few weeks ago, I was on top of my man having sex and as he kissed my tits and sucked on my nipples, I thought to myself:

Will these be my breasts in a year?

I'm (thankfully) able to displace my emotions during sex, but later that night, I cried openly about that concern. My tits are a part of me and are inextricably linked to my sexuality. I don't want to lose them, and I'd much prefer to keep my big naturals than trade them in for a shiny, perky pair. Mastectomies might not be the recommended course of action for me, but again, I don't even like the option!

I didn't write this post to be Debbie Downer or make any of you worry. I realize that cancer won't keep me down for more than a few months. I know that I have dealt with far worse things in my life and come out the stronger for it. (If you've been reading my blog, you know that I've had much more toxic things inside me than this!)

I WILL beat this, and cancer will NOT win in the end! I see the future, and there's more more for me to do as a sexuality educator and a lawyer. And, although my goal to adopt a little girl is on hold, all of my doctors are aware of my plan to adopt. I've told them that I will do whatever they recommend to ensure that I'm around for decades to come!

For those of you who might be skeptical that I'm letting this get the best of me for too long, I'll leave you with this:

What DC relationship and sex blogger had anal sex when she got back home from her breast biopsies?

This one.

I might be a bit down, but I'm not out. Not even close. I'm not going to give up what I love to do if I can help it, even if that means that I have to be a little creative while doing it. (It's better to have sex with your bra on and ice packs inside your bra than not have sex at all!)

PS For those of you who have emailed, called, texted, commented or Tweeted, your support means more to me than you could possibly know. For my friends in real life who are my family, you are a huge part of what I'm fighting for! And, you know me well enough to know that I'm not going to miss out on any laughs, girl talk and gossip with you all. I love you with all of my heart. xoxo

No Pity Parties. Only Titty Parties.

I've blogged a fair amount about my tits.

But, today, I'm shifting the focus from tits to breast health.

"Why should I care about breast health?" you might be asking if you are a guy.

"I'm 24. Breast health isn't really an issue at my age," you might be saying.

Ladies, it's never too early to be thinking about breast health. And, guys, if you love boobs, the women who have them or both, you should care about these issues, too!

Why do I care?

1. I know far too many friends who have lost loved ones to breast cancer;

2. My Mom died of cancer of unknown primary origin so she might have had breast cancer; and

3. Since 2000, I've had three benign breast lumps removed and three breast biopsies.

***
I had written the above in the hopes that I would submit it for Femme Writes in May. I wasn't sure what direction I wanted the post to go and so I just saved it as a draft. I now realize that there was a reason for that.

In early May, I found a lump in my right breast. I was due for my annual mammogram anyway so I scheduled that. (Most women do not require yearly mammograms before the age of 40, but given my health history and my Mom's, I started getting screened at 35.)

Earlier this month, I went for my mammogram. The breast radiologist at Sibley Hospital reviewed my films and performed an ultrasound. She then recommended taking small samples of the lump that I found and abnormal calcifications that the mammogram showed via biopsy. I don't particularly like biopsies — who does, right? — but I knew what to expect and scheduled them for the last Friday.

On Tuesday, I was sitting in the chair at the hair salon when my cell phone rang. I looked at the number and recognized it as Sibley's main line. I answered the phone and the radiologist informed me that the lump I had found was a fibroid (aka nothing to worry about). But, the calcifications showed Ductal Carcinoma In Situ.

DCIS.

Early Stage Breast Cancer.

I sat in the back room of the hair salon as tears filled my eyes. I asked the doctor to repeat it since she didn't say the ‘c' word the first time. It was surreal, and I knew that for the rest of my life, I would always remember that moment. After I hung up with her, I called my best friends and my man to inform them. I also rescheduled my plans for the evening.

A few hours later, I realized that there was no need to change my plans. I deal with health stuff every day, and breast cancer is just one blip on my radar. So, I put on some makeup, my favorite Burberry mini, high black open-toe heels and a smile, and I went out to the bar.

When my man and I came home at the end of the evening, we talked about the next steps. I shed some more tears. And, then it was business time. (It's me. Did you really expect anything less?)

I also began to count my blessings. I'm thankful that my health conditions helped get this diagnosed early. If you have to have breast cancer, this is the best kind to have. I WILL survive this. (If I hadn't had my first mammogram until the age of 40, that might not have been the case.) I'm fortunate that I have great medical insurance, doctors and friends. And, I'm saying prayers for the many women out there with far more severe cases and far less options and resources.

If you're reading this and wondering what you can do to help me, it's easy! Help yourself and help others!

* Conduct breast self-exams.

* Have a health care provider regularly conduct a clinical breast exam.

* Get annual mammograms.

* For men and women, make sure your loved ones are doing all of this!

* Donate toward finding a cure here! I chose to set up a fundraising page through The Breast Cancer Research Foundation because BCRF is the ONLY breast cancer organization that received an A+ rating from the American Institute of Philanthropy. You can take comfort in the fact that any donation will be used to make a difference!

There's NO need for a pity party here. And, when I'm cancer free, I will be holding a titty party! (It's like a blog party, but so much better!) I have a lot to celebrate. xoxo