Strong Armed

Following a morning of rigorous and passionate spring cleaning I'm having a mini melt down. I've done it one armed. Not only does this increase the time taken by about 100%, it leaves me with a mental projection of my future self. This lymphoedema rubbish means I'm always having a battle with myself to remember to forget my left arm. Since I'm not allowed to lift anything heavier than 1kg with it (a third of the weight of my littlest cat), I'm having to retrain my brain as a one armed individual.

Did I mention that I love shoes? I think I might have - This love sees me take an extra canvas bag to work every day, (on top of my leather bag du jour), containing my heels, since I can't travel on rush hour buses in them; Camilla Skovgaard boots are not designed for standing room only. This canvas bag then gets filled with a large amount of office tat to be brought home every day, since there is space there to fill. Oh and since I'm carrying spare shoes and tat, I may as well heft home that internet delivery I got sent to the office too. And the M&S shop on the way back too of course. No balancing pack horse act for me anymore, oh no, now I must carry with my right arm only. Every day. Excuse me, but what the f**k is going to happen to my body? On top of the a symmetric tit situation, naturally broad shoulders and super cropped hair I am going to have to add withered, puny, wasted left arm, and bulking, sinewy, body-builder-esque right one to the equation. Oh good lord. As if Dadjokes doesn't have enough of a challenge already...

The excess baggage of the Look beauty team. that's only 3 people...

You may remember me mentioning my current right arm anomaly already too - the baffling extra three cm that the god of unbalanced body parts bestowed upon my right bicep? I really am not comfortable with helping the bastard in its mission to blot out all light and lesser limbs in photo opportunities. I also keep forgetting about the left arm lifting ban, and remember at inopportune moments, such as carrying heavy frying pan contents to plate. This has resulted on frying plan being dropped IMMEDIATELY, twice. Burnt leg, bent pan, no dinner. Or I carry the 'last weeks product launches' bag to the beauty cupboard, then remember and chastise my idiotic self for the next half an hour whilst watching my left arm closely for signs of ballooning. Not conducive to a hard days achieving in the workplace.

Is that even how it works? I'm not sure how, when or why lymphoedema occurs, so I don't know what initial signs I'm looking for, but I know I don't want to see them. Apparently my risk is about 30%, since I had all my lymph nodes out, and I know I'm not allowed to chance an infection in my left arm as this, as well as all the lifting, makes my risk greater. That means no opportunistic cat-scratch cuddling, no blood or blood pressure tests and no blinking armpit shaving, leaving me in yet another awkward beauty quandary. No shaving, no waxing (aside from the risk of ingrown hairs, it bloody hurts too much, plus there is a wound there, ew), and I'm not entirely comfortable about chemical laden hair removal creams these days. So that leaves me with, well, with hairy armpits. So far I'm being very Julia Roberts about it and try not to wince when I assume my radiotherapy position; laid back, arms above head, three or sometimes four medical professionals peering at my body closely. I'm sure they've seen hairier, but its just not in my nature to be comfortable with hirsutism. Oh how I genuinely miss chemotherapy benefits sometimes - yes you heard me, benefits.

So far so good on the lymphoedema avoidance front though, but I can feel the cockiness creeping in. Oh it won't happen to me, I can lift my slightly overweight cat* up nooo problem, since nothing has happened the last few hundred times, and cat-avoidance is more alien to me than hairy armpits. Plus I'm feeling more and more normal every day, and a redundant left arm is just not normal. Its really hard to unlearn how useful it is. I've done enough lifestyle changes, I'd like to hold onto some bodily traditions, thank you very much.

Please do tell me if I'm being an idiot and must be stricter than Posh Spice in a chocolate factory about this, I'm not feeling so relaxed about the relaxing. Every time I put my own body weight on it to push myself out of bed for a wee (how am I supposed to remember in the middle of the night?), I have nightmarish visions of waking up with a semi-permanently swollen arm and wonder how I'll hide it for Katie's wedding, not to mention fit it in the bridesmaid dress.

Although if it did happen, it would be great to stop swelling at 3 cm to catch up with mutant right arm. Then at least I would achieve a bit of balance in my life. Disproportionate body building balance maybe, but I do like  bit of symmetry. Every cloud and all that...

*apparently I am  feeder. I can't resist it when he asks me. Bad mother...

The M-Blow Thing and How It Happened

It seems the god of symmetry has decided against cutting me slack. My formative years were spent hustling to the left side of friends in group shots so I could turn my skinny arm toward the camera, and keep my monstrously, disproportionately humongous right one out of view. I may be exaggerating in the same way that you feel particularly conscious of your own pimple, compared to other peoples perception of it. Or I could not, since it has always been a source of delight and awe for everyone I know. Including the surgical assessment nurse who had to measure both arms for hospital records, in case of lymphoedema. Each measurement of my right arm is exactly one cm larger than my left, apart from the upper arm, which is three cm bigger. There is no medical explanation. On the up side I was very good at javelin at school. And swimming in circles.

My alcoholic childhood dentist neglected to correct one protruding incisor, so it took a lot of practice and effort to stop talking, laughing or smiling out of one side of my mouth only. It just wasn't great for my graduation photo, attempts at coquettish giggling or early TV appearances.

And now, I am destined to the next two years of mono-boobism.

Its not really something a 31 year old should think about. The problem is, the breasts haven't done their job yet. I'm not done with being outraged (read delighted) at appreciative glances from the opposite sex. I haven't breast fed my baby, or lured anyone (read DadJokes) into making one with me in the first place. I'm not ready to give up bikini-confidence, haven't filled out my wedding dress, basically I was really quite happy with both boobs for now, thank you very much.

As with the hair loss, I had to go through some stages of mourning to handle the thought of this new me. There involved wailing on a train platform while I accused Dadjokes of being too nice in telling me he'd still find me attractive. I spent whole evenings mentally sorting through my lifelong collection of lingerie, consigning my most beloved pieces to an imaginary dustbin. There are some dresses hanging in my wardrobe that I actually couldn't look at, like a sick puppy I'd given up for adoption. But most of all I couldn't imagine waking up from surgery and dealing with looking at myself for the first time.

As it turned out the anticipation was so much worse than reality. This may have been helped along by morphine, but it was definitely helped by the understanding of my boyfriend, best friend and sheer bloody relief that I no longer had a mortal enemy exorcising squatting rights in my body.

I won't lie, it is quite weird. I didn't look until Katie helped me shuffle to the toilet, and since I was there, and a mirror was there, and we had nothing else to do, I held my breath and kept my PJ's on and had a peek. It wasn't earth shattering, just flat, to be expected, nothing special. I was even slightly disappointed that I didn't crumble in a heap and require immediate psychotherapy, or even sedation. If anything I am freaked out by how OK I have been. It appears I didn't know me very well. I'm now fascinated by my scar , like when someone catches a repulsive spider under a glass and I insist on inspecting it before they put it outside.

Fashion wise - guess what?! More shopping needed, hey ho. I need stretchy to accommodate my awkward left arm, patterned to distract from the extreme a-symmetry, high necked to avoid an accidental bending-down flash, sleeved to cover the dressing, loose sleeved to allow for swelling, short sleeved to allow for hot weather - wait, we can probably scrap that last one - but basically, it's a logistical conundrum of very great importance that requires INTENSIVE Internet research and monies spent. Even my dad can't argue with that one.

It has been four weeks and one day and, aside from the unsettling pings and pangs I get where my jumbled nerve endings are trying to work out their place in life, I'm really feeling OK about the new me. I think the surgery interrupted my grieving process, so I skipped the denial, anger (OK, some of that), bargaining and depression and went straight for acceptance. I'm not blowing my smug trumpet, it's just not as bad as everyone thinks. Not least for the post-surgery perks such as a medically prescribed necessity for someone else to carry everything for me, and lots of flowers and cards.

Plus its not forever. I can look forward to being re-built at some point in the future, I may even take advantage of the situation and up a cup, in which case I will need a whole new lingerie drawer and a showcase holiday too. In the mean time I'm someone a bit different from everyone else. And I like it that if I put my wig on and stuff a foam comfy down my Sloggi crop top (needs must), that guy who just checked me out on the street has no idea that I'm only just past bald and with one tit. How funny is that?

Symmetry fans...

Help, I need Somebody

Now that the glory of relief has settled down a little, the restrictions of the Nit are starting to become all too apparent. Its not so much the Nit itself - I feel I've mostly conquered that with my extensive bra research. No, this is the post-op effects of an axillary clearance. My new wonder surgeon recommended I have all my lymph nodes taken out, since a couple were a bit affected initially. The wonderfully good news is the rest were clean under closer inspection. The bad news is my excavated armpit has rendered me about as limp and useless as this cat toy.

Aside from recovering from quite a big operation, letting my skin knit back together (eurgh) and waiting for feeling and function to fully return to my left arm, I also have to be careful to avoid lymphoedema. Forever. My risk is higher since I had full node clearance, so I'm not allowed to lift anything heavier than a small shopping bag. Great for getting out of moving house any time in the future, bad bad bad for cuddling my kittens. It's only my left arm that's restricted but Woody and Columbo are wriggly little buggers. I am taking them to the vet next week to have them weighed (with assistance, yes). I may take a small shopping bag for comparative purposes. I have also noticed a strange phenomenon whereby I can feel cold drinks in my armpit. I thought it was my overactive imagination picturing the liquid seep out of the stitches cartoon style, but then lovely reader Phoebe asked me if I noticed it like she did, so it must be a hilarious side effect. Its quite refreshing in this weather in fact.

So here I am, back to 'normality' in my flat. Which would be great except I have never been more aware of how much I CAN'T do. And its making me humph.

I'm not allowed to type. Imagine! This post is being bashed out haltingly and frustratingly, one fingered, like someones technologically repressed great aunt.

I can't wash my left armpit. This is frankly disgusting, considering it is hot outside, and is further compounded by the fact I can't really get dressed. My options are limited to things that don't go over the head. Now that DadJokes has gone back to work I have found myself in a few contorted situations where I've attempted something adventurous with buttons but without elastic. I have remained calm and somehow restored decency just before calling on a neighbour. Then I'll realise my choice was too hot or uncomfortable, and even though I've got it on, NO amount of physical prowess or mental aptitude will work out how to get it off. So I've sat and sweated/winced till DadJokes got home and rescued me.

I can't really sleep. This is particularly annoying considering I thought I finally could relax. I think it's like when you've finished your a-levels but you've crammed so hard that your head is still turning over equations for a good few weeks afterwards. I may need to consider Ovaltine. or Valium.

Chores are basically impossible - even cutting up my dinner is hard - but I just can't stop myself trying (smack on hand for me), so I'm shuffling around the place, half girl, half gorilla with a limp left arm and a bit of a determined scowl on my face. My brother in law finally utilised that secondary school red cross training and (sort of) made me a sling. The family thought it would stop people grabbing my arm forgetfully, or me doing things. It didn't.

This post will greatly upset DadJokes (he may attempt to give up work), my mum (she may attempt to move in) and Katie, (who can't give up work since she's covering me, and also, I am her boss), so I hereby take a vow of uselessness in their honour.

Even though my wisteria has become so overgrown since my op that I can't actually get out the back door. Even though we have a new desk arriving tomorrow that will require assembly and a spare room for it to go in that looks like a clothes avalanche hit it. Even though I am craving banana bread but don't have the ingredients.

Nope. I'm going to sit here cradling my arm, typing one fingered, and re-evaluating my wardrobe to avoid panic scenarios. Till the weekend? Till next weekend? Well, for now at least...

p.s. If there are any local friends who have even a slight green finger about them, I could really do with a (left) hand in the garden...

the view immediately outside