Won't Back Down

I'm somewhere roughly 1 1/2 weeks out from buzzcut day. So, I bought waterproof mascara. I mean, I'm gonna be bald, I'm not about to be a raccoon, too! And, statistically speaking, I'm forecasting a downpour. 

I should know. I've spent the majority of my career as some form of an analyst. In fact I must admit, I love numbers like some people love coffee and croissants in the morning. I just think they're delicious like nummy nummy numbers num num. No, I'm not a statistician (I'll never be as cool as YOU, Uncle Rocco). But I AM one dangerous stat-slingin' consultant cowgirl. Mandatory round-up skills, sassafras attitude extra credit.  

Which is why I know that my forthcoming invite's-in-the-mail buzzcut party will come with tears. Just like chemo round two. And this Saturday's Susan G. Komen Race For the Cure I'll be attending. I know I can fight cancer, but I can't fight those kinda probabilities.

In fact,  I've been thinking a lot lately about probabilities. Some, I've accepted. Others I struggle to suppress their sleepless nights of fear. Let's review. 

1. Total hairloss 👉 GONNA happen. Everywhere. It's temporary. Insert fashion wig moment and pastey brows. Moving on. 
2. Repeat performance of allergic reaction to chemo drugs, only worse 👉 Less than 10% probability. Invoke positive vibes and insert power of prayer here. 
3. Irreversible menopause twenty years earlier than nature intended 👉 Don't have the exact stats to plug in here, but my doc warned me of this one while STARING into my soul. Not sure I can wish my way out. 😞
4. Long-term neuropathy, osteoporosis, heart issues, or a litany of other side effects of chemotherapy 👉 All looming possibilities yet no sexy numbers to give me comfort at night. Docs are scared enough to follow these risks by tracking warning signs every three weeks throughout treatment. Hoping here that mind-over-matter and power-of-positivity are my get-outta-jail-free cards. When my cancer is gone, I want ALL it's little sidekicks' a$$es to have been kicked as well. Game on.
5. [And finally the MOTHER of all my fears] Cancer coming back like the Terminator, only a decade or two out once I've convinced myself I'm invincible 👉 The one no amount of calculation can turn off my brain's desire to worry about. 

Doctors have already told me that without a total bilateral mastectomy, I can expect in-depth mammograms, ultrasounds, and invasive biopsies (NOT fun) every. six. months. for the rest. of. my. life. [Deep sigh.]

So, as I hike this $hitty chemo mountain in stilettos, I'm already thinking about the trip back down the other side. 

• Option A -- Cut this mother out and risk PTSD roughly 120 more times in my life (yes, I'm living to 100). But enjoy an easy-breezy-boobie-squeezy outpatient lumpectomy and suck it up. 
• Option B -- Gut my nearly-A knockers, poof 'em back up like a pair of feather pillows, then shine on like a crazy diamond. 

Pretty clear which direction I'm leaning, I know. I can't hide it very well. It's just feeling right... today. But I promise I'll keep asking input from the people who went to medical school far longer than I (ahem, which is never). And allowing myself to be guided by the data and research to help me find the right path. 

And just in case you're compelled to weigh in on this, I warn you it will fall on deaf ears without a medical degree and specialization in breast oncology. Sorry, not sorry. See, I reserve the right, as ALL women do, to follow my heart and make MY right choice for MY body. Even if it defies statistics, breaks laws [clearing throat], or flies in the face of logic. I'd like to reserve my waterproof mascara for weddings and babies, thankyouverymuch. 

But damn, there's ain't no easy way out. Guess I just won't back down. Sing to me, Tommy!