Restricted Extremity

I didn’t know that after a mastectomy with accompanying lymph node dissection (removal), that that arm becomes a restricted extremity. This means I can never have my blood pressure taken, blood drawn or an IV on my right arm. Man down. 

Now I’m no math wizard, but if I have 2 arms, and one is out of commission, I believe that means that 50% of the team is benched. I have 1 good arm left. 

This is a bit stressful. I don’t know how many of you have needed IVs placed or blood drawn, but it’s not always easy to get a vein on your first go round. As a doula, I see this all the time. The nurses start with one arm and if their initial pokes don’t pan out, they head over to arm number 2. For all intents and purposes, I do not have a second arm. Lefty really has to take one for the team for the rest of our lives. 

Here is another fun fact about axillary dissection (having lymph nodes removed), all sorts of stupid shit can go wrong causing more pain, discomfort and immobility than you had bargained for. And I’m not talking malpractice, went wrong, I’m talking healing, went wrong. My body has made some poor choices as it pertains to putting my internal pieces back together. 

I am experiencing  what is called ‘cording’. If you want to fully understand the concept, google it, but the gist is that the fibers have healed in a rope-like way causing what literally looks and feels like a tension rod going from your armpit down your inner arm. It hurts like a bastard and causes all sorts of referred pain in the region. 

My upper back/scapula is so sore that when my husband gently touches it to rub in muscle cream my friend Deja so sweetly concocted for me, it feels like he is pushing on a broken rib. My back is swollen as is my upper arm. The cording has also prohibited me from reaching my arm out completely. It’s like a constant Charlie horse. My only hope is physical therapy which I have heard can be very helpful so keep your fingers crossed. 

PT had better work cause I want my fucking arm back. Hell, I want that whole hemisphere of my body back. Right side used to be so trusty. Now it’s like your super shady neighbor who gives you the creeps. It’s just sort of always there pissing you off, and there is nothing you can do about it.  Oh did I mention my whole armpit and inner/upper arm, is completely numb yet somehow feels like it weights 100lbs? Yeah that’s happening too. It’s crazy fun (not at all). 

None of this is out of the realm of ordinary for a person who has recently undergone 2 surgeries to this area of the body. I just felt like Jesus, Allah, whoever, sort of owed me one for giving me breast cancer in the first place. I don’t have to have all the crappy side effects right? Allah?!

This weekend I attended the local high school’s Relay For Life. Our neighbor is a teacher at the school and chairs this event and she personally invited me to attend as a ‘survivor’ which was so kind. 

Sounded like a lovely event and there were things for my kids to do and free food so obvs I was all in. Didn’t give the concept much thought. Fast forward to walking into the ‘survivors tent’ and being given a special colored ‘survivor’ t-shirt. Thank god for giant sunglasses. 

I had never publicly stood on the side of the cancer patient. I have never self-identified this way before and I wasn’t ready for it. As I pulled the t-shirt over my head so I could be differentiated in the ‘survivors lap’ of the walk, tears just started to pour out. Not active crying, just my eyes taking a stand and saying screw you brain and better judgement, we are going to SOB. 

I was one of them.  I was the sick person all these kids had fundraised for and were walking around a track all night for. Me. I have cancer. G. R. O. S. S. 

Though I hated every second of being ‘the cancer survivor’, it was a right of passage that needed to happen. That bandaid needed to be ripped off. This is happening. I am in a different colored shirt than everyone else. Forever. Like it or not. 

I have cancer. My breasts are gone. My right arm has disenfranchised from the team. My t-shirt is purple, yours is not. But none of those things define me. What defines me is this. What you are reading. My ability to be me. 

So thank you all for reading this. Every time someone reads my words, it affirms that am still here. 

And there is no I in cancer. 

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7 Comments Add yours

  1. Kate Cloud says:

    I affirm that you are still ineffably you.

    Like

  2. Nahid ojand says:

    My dear Grace I am very proud of your strength and beautiful talent for vividly discretion of what you are going through . This can be an amazing book that is very helpful for tons of people who they can lose their hopes as soon as they hear about cancer. This is so encouraging and bravely written autobiography that is priceless.I love you dearly and me and my friends are praying and sending positive energy in your way honey. In term of physical therapy I myself have best result due to my thumb enjury getting frozen shoulder .They do have some amazing technique that helped me a lot. I love your braveness and by writing these you are a wonderful help lighting up someone darkness think about that .that is only suggestion for later. I love you and I miss you from here honey my gracy ♥️

    Like

  3. Katrina Corbett says:

    You are outstanding.

    Like

  4. PT totally helps! It will be magical how different you feel. Make sure to get someone certified in Lymphedema therapy. Have you found any good support groups? Mine are on fb. Try BC sisters, mostly WI and IL peeps.

    Like

  5. Clair Davey says:

    This post got me in the feels.

    I have actively avoided being ‘cancery’ and this is despite having a double mastectomy with no reconstruction (it’s kinda obvious the boobs are gone). I asked everybody I know not to get all ‘survivor’ on me. I have not had any experience of being public with it like you have – and I think you are super awesome for doing what you did.

    Cording sucks. I have had excellent results with my crappy right arm by stretching and having my physiotherapist work at it. They snap and it feels super weird but great afterwards. Hope yours get better soon.

    Big hugs
    Clair

    Like

  6. Liz says:

    You rock and you WILL rock this!!

    Like

  7. Michelle says:

    I enjoyed your words- thank you for sharing them. I will send you good, healing, asymmetrical thoughts- I know you will be well again.

    Like

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