Radio Silence Take 3

The Surgery That Never Was

So remember—I wrote these entries as I experienced them. But now, they come with a whole new twist.

The Plan is the Plan is the WHAT!?

Even though these entries won’t go up until after surgery, I couldn’t leave you all hanging after my week of radio silence. That wouldn’t be fair. So here’s the recap of last week’s chaos:

Monday Morning: Let the Games Begin

I got the call—surgery was officially set for Friday, January 31. This set off a domino effect of test rescheduling, but only the surgery-related ones. Chemo-related tests? “Hold, please.” If you would like to leave a call back number press # now.

Meanwhile, the night before, I was up booking my trip to see Jake because I had a feeling next week would be just as chaotic as this one. Turns out, I was right. Ticket booked. Off we go.

The Drive From Hell

Tuesday morning, I left at 6:15 AM for an 8 o’clock appointment at Brigham and Women’s Boston. Yes, I knew my appointment was at 8. Could I get there by 8? Obviously not. The GPS swore it was an hour-long drive. Lies. Two hours later, I had apparently taken the scenic tour of Massachusetts—Route 1 to Route 99 to who-knows-where, only to end up back on Route 1. For what? A joyride?

At 8:10, the echo department called, no doubt wondering if I had decided to take up a new identity instead of showing up. “I’m pulling up now,” I lied. Valet then informed me they were full. Of course they were. But bless him—he took one look at me and whispered, “Circle back, I’ll take care of you.” And that is why he’s today’s MVP.

Baseline ECHO ✔️

Ultrasound Nightmare

Next up, an ultrasound of the axillary lymph nodes. Because, remember? “It’s not in the lymph nodes.” This was just a confirmation.

Except, well.

I had already done my own research. I downloaded my MRI images and ran them through AI because, honestly, why not let artificial intelligence confirm my worst fears?

Here’s what AI had to say:

1. Increased signal intensity and cortical thickening.
2. Loss of the fatty hilum.
3. Translation: Oh, shit.

So there I was, waiting forever for the ultrasound. The tech was lovely, but let me tell you, getting an armpit probed three weeks post-op? Not a ticklish experience. It hurt. A lot. And after about ten minutes, I saw the look. The one where they find something but try to act normal. Instead of meeting my eyes, she offered me a warm blanket. Ah yes, a blanket. That should fix it.

Enter the Doctor

In walked the doctor—young, adorable, compassionate. She also came armed with a probe. “Is your shoulder okay?” she asked sweetly.

Ma’am. I am three weeks post-op and you’re treating my armpit like a stress ball. It is not my shoulder, but sure. Let’s go with that.

After another ten minutes of what felt like medieval torture, she confirmed what AI had already hinted at:

1. Cancer has spread to at least one lymph node.
2. The number of affected nodes determines staging and the risk of metastasis

Fabulous. (And we all know how I feel about that word.)

The Biopsy Bonus Round

No sooner had I left than ding—a new MyChart notification…STAT biopsy scheduled.

The doctor pulled me into the hallway (because who needs privacy at this point?) and explained they were scrambling to get a room for me. Moments later, I was back on a table, lidocaine in my arm, as they prepared to aspirate the lymph node.

Now, I’ve had biopsies before. No big deal. But this? This was different.

She shoved a rod into my armpit and started yanking it back and forth like she was deep-sea fishing. I was the tuna. The tuna was me. Give me a regular biopsy any day over this aspiration nonsense.

They promised to rush the results, so the surgeons would have a better idea of what to expect Friday. (Hope they enjoyed the preview, because I was over it.)

I left knowing the cancer had spread, but not how far. Great. Love that for me. I took a deep breath and decided: I’m going to see Jake first thing in the morning.

The Diagnosis Hits. Literally.

Now, here’s the part where things should start shifting, right? Maybe a heads-up that this might change the plan? A simple “Hey, we might have to rethink Friday”? No. Not a word.

Meanwhile, Pre-Op kept calling, scolding me for not answering.

Uh, sorry, I was ON A PLANE GOING TO TELL MY SON ABOUT THIS SHITSHOW. Priorities.

Thursday: The Airport Gut Punch

Fast forward to Thursday. I’m in an Uber, heading to the airport, when I get that dreaded notification at 6:01 PM EST.

DIAGNOSIS: Metastatic carcinoma, consistent with spread from breast primary.

I mean, I knew, right? I knew. But still.

The plan is still the plan, right?

Wrong.

Enter Dr. Dominici, Breast Surgeon

I was still waiting to board my flight when that number popped up on my screen—the one that now makes me want to board a plane to Honolulu instead.

It was Dr. Dominici.

Surgery? Cancelled.

Chemo? Immediately.

WTF (for the millionth time)

So here we are. Back to square one, except now, we’re doing this the chemo-first way. Because of course we are.

So Here’s the Thing.

I kept the surgery quiet—almost no one knew. Why? I’m not entirely sure. Maybe I thought not talking about it would make it feel less real. Or maybe I just wanted to skip the stress and come back Monday with some good news, like Ta-da! I’m fine. What I do know is that I didn’t want a flood of worried check-ins or people waiting on updates I wasn’t ready to give. In a situation that feels completely out of my hands, this was one thing I could control—and I wasn’t about to let that go.

And now? Now, I feel the same way about all of it. I’m stuck. Paralyzed. The plan has changed, and it’s been a month. A month I feel has been wasted. A month where my brain has had way too much time to overanalyze, connect the dots, and reach the conclusions I’m sure they reached immediately. But no one will say it.

Why? Because it’s not relevant to the plan.

Never mind that I need to know. Never mind that it is relevant to me. To them, it doesn’t change what happens next, so it’s left unspoken.

Where is the disconnect? Seriously. How is it possible that something so obvious, something that literally determines how I process this entire thing, just gets shrugged off because it doesn’t alter their course of action?

They need more. Always more. But apparently, I don’t get to need anything.

CHEMO FIRST

And now, instead of surgery, I’ll be starting chemo first. But I’m okay with that. Because there is now a cancerous marker that they can watch to make sure I have the right cocktail. So I guess that “not important” bone scan was actually pretty damn important after all.

The New Plan: Upcoming Schedule

• February 4: Body Scan

• February 10: Dr. Carty signs off on Post-Op

• Week of February 17: Port Placement

•       Starting February 18 or 25: Chemo every three weeks (Tuesdays)

So there you have it—my non radio silent week in all its glory. Stay tuned because, let’s be real, this shitshow isn’t over yet.

I just need a moment. Another moment.

But if you really need to let me know you’re here, if you have to say something—keep it simple. Comment or Text…Drop a “🍑” (because everything right now is a**-backward), a “🎤” (because, honestly, I’m about to drop one), or just the word here.

That’s it. No more, no less. I’ll know you’re standing with me holding me up.