I Popped my Boob

In addition to the successful and "normal" scan of my girly parts yesterday, I also received some other good news. I went to Dr. Baum, my plastic surgeon, for a follow-up on the implant exchange surgery from 5 weeks ago. He checked the scars, declared everything normal, and gave me the go-ahead to begin my usual exercise routine again.  Time to get back into training for my triathlons!

At 5:30 this morning, I returned to Method 360. Woot woot!! I loved every minute of my daily classes with Trish and Kristin in December through March and couldn't wait to start again. Everyone was excited to see me back, and as I walked in, Trish said, "Just don't pop your boob." Ten minutes later, I popped my boob.

Seriously. I was doing some army crawl on the floor and I thought that my right side was sweating a bit more than it should. I peeked into my shirt and my sports bra was wet right on the front, so I ran to the bathroom. When I lifted up my shirt, I saw my that skin had opened up like an eye. The reddish purple implant was perfectly exposed through the 5 or 6 inch gap. Since I didn't take a picture, I've taken a page out of one of the funniest Mommy blogs I know of and I've drawn you a crappy picture of what I saw.

The oddest thing to note about this picture is that I didn't draw any blood. That's because there wasn't any. I mean, a little pinkish liquid, but probably only a few tissues worth. The implant itself seemed to be a pinkish purple color. (I think it started out clear, but it's been in my body for 5 weeks.)

So I returned to the gym floor, put my sweat towel between my exposed implant and bra (luckily, I hadn't really begun to sweat yet), and quickly realized that maybe Kristin could help since she has had these surgeries, too. The conversation went as follows:

Shari - "Kristin, sorry to interrupt. My stitches are popped wide open." (Lifts shirt.)
Kristin - Looks. Runs away. (I thought she was going to throw up.)
Shari - Calling across the room, "Are you okay?"
Kristin - "I'm calling Dr. Baum."

So Kristin is the hero of the morning! She got the emergency line to wake Dr. Baum. She drove me to his office and waited with me. She even assisted him with the restitching surgery! (He didn't have a nurse and had to keep his hands sterile, so he had her handing him stitches, betadine, and such.) She said it was really interesting to watch, as she got to see him pulling my skin aside, cleaning underneath, etc. She even snapped a stealthy picture of  me staring at the ceiling. Go Kristin!

Note that the clock on the wall says it's just about 7:00am. And the odd lump on my shorts is my shirt that I'd whipped off when Dr. Baum showed up.

So, all was done by a few minutes after this picture. We went back to get my car and Trish lovingly scolded me for popping my boob. Then back home to take care of kids and resume normal life. I don't even need painkillers today, but I'm taking it easy just in case. The biggest concern is infection because there was a gaping hole in my body, so I'm on antibiotics.

In retrospect, I'd noticed that the seam on my right breast was getting darker, like dark brown, over the past few days. I thought it was just part of the healing process for radiated skin. Then, this morning, it opened SO easily. Again, it was 10 minutes into my first workout. There was no tearing at all. It just spread apart. I guess I could describe it like a Ziploc bag opening, not a pants seam ripping.  I truly believe that the scar was going to open no matter what. The radiated skin hadn't fused together after the surgery, and the little dark area was a hole. If I'd been loading groceries this weekend and lifted my arm to close the trunk, the split may have happened. Maybe starting at 1 inch, not 5, but it was going to happen nonetheless.

Of course this whole thing has changed my perspective on going back to exercising. I still believe that I NEED to keep my body in shape. However, radiated skin doesn't care that there's a triathlon on June 9 and another on August 4. Dr. Baum says "no" to both of them. A week ago, I would have argued, but the shock of seeing my popped boob has me 100% willing to follow doctor's orders. As bummed as I am, exercise will have to wait.

So, how was your morning?

Another Nervous Day

This is a completely unrelated photo showing how my hair looks right now. (Sorry about the totally fake looking smile.) I was getting some sideburns, so I'm using headbands every day to train the hair to stay back. I think I'll call this my Kramer-look.

(Update and correction at the bottom.)

I'm nervous today. As you might predict, every single doctor's appointment these days is met with the fear of what bad news I might receive. Along with the term "cancerversary" on the cancer blogs, you'll also find the term "scanxiety". Everything points to me being fine, but I don't think I'll ever be able to calmly walk into a medical office again.

Tomorrow's doctor's appointment? It's because I did a very normal thing for a 41-year-old woman: I got my period. However, as you may remember, the tamoxifen I take is supposed to prevent the estrogen in my body from doing what it normally does, so I shouldn't be getting a period. And I haven't since starting tamoxifen. But then I did last week. Dr. Google and the many women who post on cancer boards and blogs said that I'm not alone, but I had to be sure.

When I called the oncologist's office, they weren't overly concerned ("It happens sometimes to some women.") but they advised me to call my ob/gyn. Her office has me set up for an endometrial ultrasound tomorrow. Evidently, tamoxifen slightly raises the risk of endometrial cancer. Very slightly: I go from something like 1/1000 odds to 3/1000 odds.* My odds of cancer recurrence without taking tamoxifen is much higher, so it's totally worth the risk. But I think all of my doctors have the same scanxiety that I have. They were surprised that my breast lump was cancer, so they don't want to miss anything at all. That's good, I guess. However, I'm stuck sitting in the very same office (Crouse Imaging Center) where my initial diagnosis was made. Fun times, huh?

Rationally, I know that this is nothing. From this National Cancer Institute link, I have none of the symptoms described. I'm 100% certain what I had was a normal period. (Women friends out there, I'm sure you'll agree that you totally know what your period looks and feels like. This was totally normal. Not at all "bleeding or discharge unrelated to menstruation".) And in case you, too, are freaking out a little, check out the last sentence: "Endometrial cancer is highly curable."

So, by this time tomorrow, I'll have been diagnosed with NOT having endometrial cancer. Then why am I still so nervous?

Update - My ultrasound was totally normal, with the endometrial lining measuring 6mm. (Don't know what that means besides hearing the word "normal" attached to it.) The unfortunate part is that my cycles are probably back, but that's better than the cancer being back. What was I thinking, throwing out my Diva Cup? That'll teach me to listen to the oncologist! Actually, my assumption is that Dr. Kirshner is used to dealing with cancer patients who are older, so he assumed when I'd stopped my period, it would stay that way. My regular gynecologist sees women of all ages on many different medications, so she's less surprised with my body doing whatever it's been doing.

*The math geek in me has to correct this statement. Going from 1/1000 to 3/1000 can actually be described as TRIPLING my chances of endometrial cancer. Fortunately, the increase from 0.1% to 0.3% is the slight increase I was referring to. See how statistics could be used to scare people?

That Supreme Court Gene Thing

I really wish I had a better understanding of what's going on in the Supreme Court tomorrow. I know it matters, and I've figured out a little about it, but if someone wants to debate me on the subject, I don't think I know enough to hold my end of the argument. But I'm guessing that if I didn't have breast cancer myself, I know and understand even less. Therefore, I'm going to blog tonight to sort out the few thoughts I have, and do it as a teacher to anyone who wants to learn with me.

When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I decided upon a double mastectomy. However, I could have said, "Why don't you just try cutting out that lump in my right breast? See if you can get everything without taking my boobs." At that point, the doctors would have said, "Let's find out whether you have the breast cancer gene. If you do, your body will probably grow cancer again, so your best bet is to go for the double mastectomy."

So my blood would have been drawn, and the sample would be sent to a company called Myriad. Then would check for the BRCA1 and BRCA2 genes using some patented technology they have invented to find the genes (I think). Then they'd let my doctors and me know whether I had either of them and decisions about treatment could be made from there.

I opted for the mastectomy without knowing about my genes. However, I did have a blood sample sent in to Myriad this past summer (just another blood draw during my chemo infusions). I wanted to know whether I was carrying a gene that Maggie or Reese or either of my two sisters might have to worry about. Also, those BRCA1 and BRCA2 genes also indicate something about cancer in the female parts. Clearly, my tests came back negative, or I'd know more about this.

Because the insurance through Paul's work has been superb throughout this whole thing (thanks SRC and Excellus), the genetic test was covered. However, I was warned in advance that this is an expensive test to do. Myriad is the only place that does this genetic testing. That's where this whole Supreme Court thing comes in. Does Myriad have the right to patent our genes?

In my opinion, they shouldn't. If Myriad has the patent to locate the BRCA genes, they control the price. I read somewhere that the company makes a huge profit off of this. Also, if they are making money from this without competition, where's their incentive to improve their research and find new things?

That's where my understanding of this stuff ends. I have a few articles (there are many) that you can read here in preparation for what will be in the news tomorrow. (I admit, they're pretty slanted toward my opinion.) Please feel free to post if you have anything to add or if I said something incorrect, and if you want to start that debate with me where I'll be unable to defend myself, go ahead. At least I might learn something.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/04/14/human-gene-supreme-court_n_3081399.html

http://msmagazine.com/blog/2013/04/13/the-breast-cancer-gene-and-the-control-of-womens-bodies/

http://bcaction.org/take-action/outlaw-human-gene-patents/

That Was Easy

That implant exchange surgery was a breeze! Though I've been taking it easy this afternoon, I'm amazed by how unaffected I am right now. I can walk around, lift my arms, turn my body side to side, and even gently touch my chest on top of the bandages. I haven't taken a pain pill since over 4 hours ago, and even then, I took only one when the dosage said I could take two.

Here's my play-by-play of  today: I had a friend pick me up at 6am for my 6:30 arrival time. I went in by myself and took the stairs up to the fifth floor because I could. Almost immediately, I was taken to get myself changed into my gown-that-opens-in-the-back and souvenir non-slip hospital socks. Here's my waiting-for-the-anesthesiologist picture:

After meeting a number of nurses who verified over and over who I was and what I was there for (no accidental nose jobs or vasectomies), Dr. Baum came in and drew all over my chest, presumably to make sure I'll be symmetrical and pretty. I reminded him, "When in doubt, go smaller." By 7:30, I was wheeled into the operating room, transferred onto the table, and fell asleep within seconds of something being injected into my arm.

Unlike after the mastectomy, there was no puking when I woke up around 10:30. Pain was about a 5 on the happy face to agony scale, but I got my Vicodin pill right away. Paul had arrived, and for some reason, I felt compelled to tell him that Maggie's classmate Connor didn't want a party so he got to go to Wonderworks for his 5th birthday. (I think the train of thought came from Paul telling me that school drop-off had gone fine and I knew that there'd be a birthday treat today.) Then the nurse told me to go back to sleep.

I was much more lucid and only about a pain scale 3 when I awoke again a little after noon. The nurse helped me stand up slowly, and since I wasn't dizzy on the way to the bathroom, I deemed myself ready to go home. Unfortunately, Dr. Baum had forgotten that if I wear adhesive against my skin for too long, I get a rash, so the nurses had to call him to re-bandage me with an Ace wrap instead of tape. He took a while because he was in another surgery, but as soon as he was done, I was outta there.

We stopped for a Shamrock Shake at the drive-thru on the way home because I hadn't been allowed to eat anything before surgery and I needed a sugar boost. Then I went up for another nap while Paul went to get Maggie and Reese from their sitters. Woke up and took another pain pill, but I've been fine since. I was downstairs for a normal dinner (not even the soup I'd planned on having), and the evening has felt just like a day that never included a surgery.

If you're waiting for the picture of my boobs, here's all I've got:

There's a faint marker line right down the middle from Dr. Baum's artwork this morning. Also, you can still see the radiation burn on my right side, which may never go away completely. (Mirror picture, so you don't have to reverse sides).

On Tuesday, I go in for my follow-up and Dr. Baum will remove the bandages. Unfortunately, he had to do a C cup (I was hoping for B's) based on the size of the skin and tissue that was there, but that's totally not a complaint. Boobs are boobs, and as long as this doesn't get infected or something, I'm a happy camper.

Thanks for all of the support and positive thoughts today. I'll update again soon, but compared to all of the other stuff from the past year, this was a big piece of cake!

Shari's Hair - A History

The last time you saw my hair, it was just peeking out from my bald skull in those family photos we had done in October. It was blonde and seemed straight. Five months later, my brown curls have returned. Here is a picture of me right now, and please don't ask Paul how many pictures of myself I just took with his cell phone to get an appropriate angle.

It's curly, it's easy, I think it looks good, and it's not much of a change from before chemo, right? Although I could just keep it this way, I think I'm going to try growing my hair back to the length it was in 2011. I want to have made my own choices about my hair. After it's long again, if I want to cut it back off, it'll be because I liked the short hair, not because it was poisoned and fell out.

Yet I have fears - well-grounded fears - about what will happen to my hair next. Again, I'm going to let my pictures do the majority of the talking here, but in general, my curls will continue to grow OUT, rather than down, and my Jew-fro days are just around the corner.

Here we go with a history of my hair. Feel free to laugh at me. I did while scanning these photos, and if you don't almost spit out your milk (ahem, beer) at some of these pictures, you are taking this blog much too seriously. (Short description after each picture.)

 This is my original baby-fine hair. Short, straight and blonde, just as you saw a few months ago.

 

By six months old, my first little mullet-curls were growing.

 By two, I had a full head of curls, but still blonde.

 At almost-four, the color was darkening.

A little sun-bleached at age six. (I actually included this picture because of my socks and sneakers.)

My Jew-fro was beginning by age seven. But nobody noticed because they were too enamored with my bike.

Mom knew how to tame the friz and the height on fourth grade school picture day. Unfortunately, as you'll soon see, she didn't teach me the trick. Maybe I just stopped letting her spit in my hair. Also, note the dark brown color.

My almost-eleven year old hair is starting to get puffy. I think I was trying to grow it longer at this point. I guess Mom was too busy with the new baby to do my hair anymore.

Ah, twelve years old, braces, and some unmanageable curls.

A fourteen-year-old shot thrown in for its humor value. I truly believe that the popped collar is causing the mullet. I don't think I actually had one.

 Age fifteen. I entered high school with a full Jew-fro.

 Another one at fifteen, just to prove that this was a daily occurrence.

I even rocked my 'fro for an appearance in the local paper. (For those of you with good eyes, I still remember how disappointed I was that they cut out half of what I'd said and made me look ignorant.)

 By sixteen, I'd learned that a barrette on top can work wonders.

 The barrette was even used on more formal occasions.

I think around age seventeen, I discovered mousse. I used it to keep the hair down and could occasionally remove the barrette.

 Off to the college freshman dorm with my mousse and spiral curls.

The ponytail and bangs look was more common for me during freshman and sophomore year.

 This one shows how long I could let it grow, now that I'd discovered the barrette and the mousse tricks.

Oh, but then there were some fun nights with a hairbrush in the college dorm. After seeing my fifteen-year-old pictures, you'll believe me when I said that this did not involve a single spritz of hairspray. It's all me, baby!

Junior year, I cut it all off and went with the mushroom-head style. I then started this whole process over, growing it out through my late 20's and taming my curls with mousse through my 30's. Somehow, the curls kind of calmed down a bit after a decade of length and mousse, but now they're back.

One more college picture for good measure, though:

It's my original bald look, no adriamycin involved!

I can't figure out a closing paragraph for this post. I'll publish this now, sleep on it, and probably edit with a closing tomorrow. Nighty-night!

Silicon Boobs

I've been putting off scheduling my "new boobs" surgery because, frankly, I don't want to have another surgery. I currently have expanders, these hard, lumpy, not-at-all round bags sewn into my chest. They even have the potential to set off a metal detector, as there is a magnetic area on them. My plastic surgeon thinks the left one has leaked its saline, as it's much smaller than the right. Yeah, I noticed that, but given the description I just made, unmatched boobs just don't register on my radar.

I'll take a step back for those of you who may have started reading my blog late. Or for those of you who have not been obsessing over my life and may not remember stuff you read about me a year ago. Last March 16, when I had my double mastectomy, the surgeon cut out all of my natural (ahem, cancer-invaded) breast tissue from both sides. Instead of sewing up a flat chest, the government requires insurance companies to pay for me to get fake replacement boobs. So a plastic surgeon stepped in and put in these slightly saline-filled things called expanders, then sewed me up. In theory, I was to go back to the plastic surgeon every few weeks, he'd take a needle and put some more saline into the expanders, and like a balloon, my boobs would grow to the size they used to be despite not having any original tissue/fat inside. However, I opted not to have any expansions, and was fine with the 360cc's of saline that were in the expanders the day they were put in.

Once the typical woman's chest is the size she wants, she schedules a surgery called an exchange or swap. The plastic surgeon cuts along the same line as before, takes out the expander, and puts in nice round, soft, silicon implants. However, I was busy with chemo within a few weeks after my mastectomy. After that, I wanted to kill more cancer with some radiation for the next few months. Then I just procrastinated calling the plastic surgeon, waiting for the desire to get my new boobs.

It never happened. Yeah, I dislike the expanders, but not as much as I hated recovering from surgery.

But being the good, direction-following person that I am, I gave Dr. Baum a call and met with him a couple weeks ago. The surgery is scheduled for Friday, March 22. It's an out-patient surgery, which means that I'll show up that morning, get put to sleep, cut open, sewn up, and sent home around lunchtime. They say I'll be up and about by the next day, although weak. And that I shouldn't exercise for, GASP!, six weeks afterwards. (All my hard work?!?!)

On the bright side, here's an incomplete list of what this surgery will not be as bad as:
- Mastectomy drains
- A/C Chemo
- Neulasta bone pain
- Taxol neuropathy 
- Radiation burns
Since I'm done with all of that and I now have March 22 on my calendar, I'm now counting down the days to getting it over with.

Oh, "How can I help?" you're asking? Liz and Liz have added a few dates to the Meal Train. Also, I'm not sure when I'll get the green light to drive after my surgery, so I may need some carpool help for Bright Beginnings.

After that, I'll just be looking for someone to go shopping with me to help me pick out some shirts that accentuate my new silicon friends.

Getting Old and Getting in Shape

This post has the potential to rival The Longest Post Ever, but it encompasses about six months of my life as opposed to six hours.

I'll start with something I've wanted to explain to all of my friends who are approximately my age and warily approaching or just past the big four-oh. That birthday, exactly one year ago, didn't bother me at all. It's just a number, I didn't feel any different, and I've never cared about getting "old" or having a bigger age. In fact, I had to be persuaded to have a party for my birthday (which didn't quite turn out the way I'd hoped) and basically, forty is no big deal. However, now that I've finished my fortieth year (actually, my 41st year for you math geeks), I have an announcement: If you can make it through the week of your 40th birthday without being diagnosed with CANCER, you've got nothing to complain about.

Obviously, during my recovery from the mastectomy and while undergoing chemo, I didn't quite feel my age. My body ached, I was tired all the time, and I seemed to be getting any ailment that could possibly exist. Knowing that there'd be a light at the end of the tunnel, I just plowed on through, waiting to be young(ish) again.

I know that the stereotype is that women doing chemo are bald and skinny because they're nauseous. However, I found that I was only eating comfort foods: cereal, pasta, breads, and uh, cookies. Add to that the fact that I was taking a steroid to make my body strong enough to handle the taxol, and I actually gained about 10 pounds during chemo.

I'd read many-an-article about how important keeping in shape is in keeping the cancer from coming back. Basically, studies and research have inconsistent findings about the kiwi and broccoli diet or the all organic lifestyle, but it is an absolute that being overweight or obese can increase your chances of recurrence. Though I indulged during the summer of awfulness, I knew it wasn't a permanent thing.

Early in my treatment, I was alerted to a fitness program at the YMCA through the national Livestrong foundation where they help cancer survivors get into shape. Knowing little about it but seeing that it was free, I signed up. After a few phone calls, I was enrolled in a class that would meet twice a week for twelve weeks, give me a personal trainer at each of those sessions, and tailor my exercises to the fact that I've been treated for cancer. Not only that, but the Livestrong program includes a free 3 month family membership, and since my body managed to grow the cool kind of cancer (breast cancer is very vogue these days), there's a grant to extend that family membership for a full year. October 2 was my start date for getting back into shape.

Between the end of chemo and the start of Livestrong, I began taking tamoxifen. Although I've alluded to it in other posts, here's my chance to explain how it has officially made me old. My breast cancer cells were classified as estrogen receptor positive, which is actually a good thing. (Best breast cancer ever, remember?) It means that the cells need estrogen to grow. This drug called tamoxifen can block estrogen from binding to other cells, thus giving any cancer cells that may be left in my body nothing to grow on. Dr. Kirshner, oncologist extraordinaire, actually told me that the tamoxifen does more for me than chemo and radiation combined. Unfortunately, tamoxifen, by cutting off my estrogen, put me into full menopause. But whatever. It was going to happen anyhow, and menopause is better than cancer.

Knowing that I cannot miss a pill or accidentally double-dose ("Uh, did I take my meds? I can't remember.  I'll just take one."), I bought one of those days-of-the-week pill boxes. Then I started taking the pills and the hot flashes began. It was the one-two punch of officially getting old.

Back to the weight thing. My first dose of tamoxifen was August 31. Starting then, I was gaining almost a pound a week by eating my normal, pre-cancer diet. I figured out, with the help of Google, why that may have been happening: Post-menopause, metabolism changes, so I was supposed to be eating like a 60-year-old, not a 40-year-old.

But hoping for an easy fix, I mentioned my weight gain to my doctors in November. A blood test for my thyroid was ordered because sometimes underactive thyroid causes weight gain. Results: overactive thyroid. I should have been losing weight. They repeated the blood test and got the same results. I was referred to an endocrinologist, who couldn't fit me in until February, so I was on my own with my weight gain for a while.

I thought that Livestrong, with the twice weekly meetings and my maintenance exercising a couple more times a week, would help out, but I continued to gain weight. In reality, Livestrong wasn't enough. The trainers, Elin and Al, were wonderful and knowledgeable, but the program is focused on strength and balance, and (sorry if I offend anyone) really geared toward older, less athletic people. I was a twice-a-day varsity swimmer through college. I've done a triathlon and numerous 5Ks. Yes, that was years ago, but my athletic body was looking for and needing more. I had to find something hard and go all-out!

In mid-December, up 18 pounds from when I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I asked a preschool mom/friend (Kristin) about some Facebook post she made about a Method 360 demo class. She explained that she and a trainer named Trish lead these classes that give you a full body workout (cardio, strength, core). I showed up that Sunday and gasped for breath, dripping with sweat for an hour. Absolutely perfect! The next day, I signed up for a 12-week program and committed to going to classes 6 days a week, sending Kristin and Trish daily food logs, and letting them measure my weight and body-fat every other week.

Those of you who know me well (or probably even those who only kind of know me) will have no doubt that I've gone all-in here. If I tell someone I'll be there 6 days a week, I will. If I have to send a food log, I will include the 3 M&Ms I ate this afternoon, no cheating. If a triathlon in June is mentioned, I'll register. (Actually, I'm now registered for one in June and another in August. Anyone have a bike I can borrow?)

It took me about 3 weeks of the daily workouts, but now I am not gasping for breath. I'm working hard and I'm really feeling fit. I'm down about 10 pounds on the scale (Trish says it's more like 13 pounds of fat gone and 3 pounds of muscle gained), but that's no longer the goal. I just want to stay in shape. Also, keep in mind that I'm not yet even back to my pre-cancer weight, though I'm more fit.

The sucky part is the diet. Paul and I have always agreed that a life without chicken wings is a life not worth living. We've said, "I'd rather die a few years earlier and eat what I want." Though I still agree with our sentiments, I have to refer back to the studies that show obesity can cause cancer to come back. If chicken wings cause me to be overweight, I guess I'll skip them. I'm sure I'll have wings, brownies, and McDonalds on occasion, but my daily diet has to be better than it used to be. For the first few weeks of this diet, I was hungry all day, but now I'm used to it and just accepting it, I guess.

So my endocrinologist appointment finally rolled around a few weeks ago and he did another blood test to check the thyroid. Now I'm actually showing the underactive thyroid that causes weight gain. His explanation is that sometimes our thyroid gland gets inflamed and becomes overactive (which would make sense because my radiation was pretty close to there), and then once the swelling goes down, it becomes underactive. I'm now taking a thyroid medication, another pill added to my days-of-the-week dispenser. We'll recheck the blood in a few months. Maybe thyroid meds will help me lose weight, too? I can wish.

When my parents were alive and I would get updates from my mom about her 60-something and my dad's 70-something friends, it was always about who had what ailments. In this ridiculously verbose post, I've mentioned my meds, menopause, my hot flashes, my oncologist, and my thyroid. I guess 40 is the new 60.

I'll end with a cool discovery I've made that'll help you young women in the future. Hot flashes are really quite uncomfortable. From summer when they started (menopause actually started temporarily with the chemo drugs) until December, I followed the generic hints: wear layers, have a fan nearby, use a cool towel or ice, etc. Literally, the very week I started Method 360, the hot flashes went away completely. Now, keep in mind that this is a very intense, boot-camp-like workout. Livestrong's 90 minutes of weights and stretching did nothing for the hot flashes. But serious exercise really does get rid of hot flashes. Now you know.

Now I'll Cliff's Notes this post:
- Chemo made me gain weight
- Tamoxifen cuts off my estrogen. Good at fighting breast cancer. Causes menopause
- Menopause made me gain more weight
- I started easy workouts with no effect
- Complete diet change and kick-ass workouts have had the desired effect
- I was diagnosed with hypothyroid
- I take pills from a days-of-the-week dispenser
- Triathlons in June and August

Happy 41st Birthday to me!