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Welcome to my blog.

Here I plan to write about what I call the Dadaism that is my life. Dadaism (pronounced DA-da-iz-um) was an artistic movement when a group of avant-garde artists in Zurich decided that the destruction and horrors of World War I were too awful to be, that this war made no sense and was somehow proof that humanity does not operate from reason and sense. I agree. They rejected it and as a statement, decided to reject meaning and logic in art and to embrace chaos and irrationality. I love this idea because my life has often lead me to embrace chaos and irrationality.

I have breast cancer. This is dada.

Some things make this reality worse. Some make it better. It helps me to remember that life is really not rational, and that it is absurd.  It is random. I am not special. Cancer, illness, death, and bad luck are normal regular average things that happen to anyone, everyone. In fact it's not a big deal at all. It's not special or meaningful. That is bullshit on toast. Dry freaking shit toast with no butter. I totally reject those notions that everything happens for a reason. Look up entropy. Cancer is just a genetic mutation that could happen to anyone at any time for so many vast reasons that the smartest and best most brilliant scientist in the world is just now getting to the outer edge of maybe sort of beginning to glimpse the CONCEPT of understanding cancer's distant relative. Soon you will have cancer or die or something. It's ok. I am not ready to die yet so I plan to be around for a while to blog but we will see.

One of my favorite writers Augusten Burroughs said:

"And it's true no matter what the diagnosis: once you're in it, it's okay."

He's right.

Ok so I started this blog as a way to blather/rant/write/vomit upon to the ethereal page about my experiences on the Dadaistic train that is Amy Jeanine Adams's adventures with breast cancer. The FUB. The Fucked Up Boob. It is not rational, or logical, or sensible but it is absurd, and artistic, and funny. So here goes.

In August 2013 I had a mammogram, routine run of the mill. Turns out she's lump.

Here's the short history:
Some random day in August I had a routine mammogram, got a call it was screwy, went back.

Some other day in August I went back, they did an ultra sound thing and then very formally invited me to dress and come sit in a fancy room. I sat there with a very sweet lady who was a "navigator" and we made polite smiley conversation. Suddenly the door burst open and a very short and very serious bald man burst in, burstingly. He said down, leaned forward, and began to talk, very seriously and formally and extremely rapidly, about things that "concerned him." The room began to shimmer and the intergalactic translator broke and I understood none of his words. At a space removed from myself I had a calm thought: "Oh yes this is why Andrea said to brrrriiiiiiiinnnnngggg sommmeeeonnnee wiiith meeeee" and then I snapped back to real time. "What did you say?" I think I said. I don't know. He said something like "I will leave you and that lady over there will translate my rude super fast masculine corporatization or impersonalization of a whole lot of shit" or something - probably not in those exact words but that's what I mostly got. Then he exited stage left. Thank god. Then the nice lady told me in a very sweet way that I needed to schedule a biopsy. She offered me some pamphlets about breast cancer, which I declined.

Daze later days later I found myself being needle biopsied. Funny - it was not a needle or anything like a shot - it was more like a soda straw with a monster on the end that they shove into your breast and then grab bites to look at. Here are some notes from what I was thinking right after: They gave me a lot of lidocaine right around the left edge of my left boob and it worked so there was "little pain" in terms of when the skin was poked open. My doctor was a large and chatty blond woman and I liked her vibe. I felt light-headed after they gave me the numbing shots, which was odd. I think it meant I was freaking out. They ultra sounded me for a year. Then put my boob in a holding thing. I looked away. After numbing me up, she plunged in to the depths of my left breast with her alien probe straw thing to the spot shown on the ultra sound (they were simultaneously watching my boob-in-vise ultrasound TV picture) and dug/shoved  it sharply down down down into the microcalcification depths to the area of interest. Once there, after a lot of shoving (I was vibrating, blood was dripping and oozing) she said "Ok I am about to take a piece, it can be kind of loud, are you ready?" and I said cheerfully (I wanted her to think I was a delight) "Oh yes!" and she said "ONE, TWO, THREE!" and then I heard a cognitive-dissonance-inducingly loud SNAP! and felt a wet spray. The end of her wand had opened its teeth and taken a bite. I died a very short death and came back to life. She pulled her probe out and deposited a little breast tissue-y worm into a cute tiny bottle. She then went back for more. She re-entered through one incision 8 timed (I declined to watch) and got 8 chomps from two sites on my left boob. Lots of pushing - it was gross. I felt kind of ill after this whole thing. I asked to look at the biopsies. They were pale tan/salmon floating fatty worms. Not sushi. I think the body registers trauma even if you don't feel the "pain" due to lidocaine. I was thinking - could you give my brain some lidocaine please? Or cocaine? Or some kind of cain? They sent me home, bandaided. It was sore but so what. I was shaking. She said that could be from the lidocaine.

Monday August 19 I won't forget the day. I was at a writing workshop at St. Ed's making small talk with friends, and about to embark on some writing workshoppy things when my phone flashed my OB's office number. I bolted out into the hot sun, and sat on bench outside but missed getting the call in time. I called right back and got some administrative person who stuttered and stumbled. Why shouldn't she? What 23 year old fun girl with a cute boyfriend who is looking forward to Friday night beer and chillin wants to talk to some old 52 year old abstraction about her cancer diagnosis. After a five hour five minute fumblathon, an actual doctor appeared in front of me - I mean on the phone. This person who I have never met, said "I am so sorry to tell you but the results from your biopsy were positive. You have cancer." I was wearing bright yellow pants with cool sandals. I looked suave. I made her read verbatim from the path report "infiltrating ductal carcinoma, moderately differentiated and high grade ductal carcinoma in situ." I made her say this 17,438 time so I could write it down verbatim. The rest of the day was a blur. This blur was extended into several weeks of spaciness which was not altogether unpleasant.

More August let's summarize shall we? Researched doctors, found the best, met a surgeon, had a lumpectomy where she sliced my breast and armpit open and took out a lump plus some lymph nodes, turned out they had a bit of cancer and oops didn't get enough of the lump (margins schmargins) so have to schedule a lump scoop #2 - planned for Tuesday October 8, and oh by the way since the lymph nodes showed MICRO teeny weeny weensy eetsy bitsy bits of cancer you get to do chemotherapy too. Oddly your path report shows a "low rate of proliferation" meaning my cancer cells are dividing slowly, which is puzzling because chemo works precisely by targeting rapidly dividing cells. My doctor said this. HOWEVER we still think chemo is the right course of action. This is where I am now: About to have surgery 2 and start chemo. I think.

I am pondering:

my little girls who snuggle me

my darling husband who got my breast cancer as a 20th anniversary gift

my friends who are showering me with love

chaos theory

poison

Dadaism