Do not, under any circumstances, give me a pink ribbon. Save your money on angel pins. Don’t waste your money on pink lip balm. And, for crissakes, stop feeding Komen by buying shit. I don’t think any one needs a compact with a pink ribbon on it as “the perfect way to make a statement.” (Look at the website. That’s what it says.)
Today I met with my oncologist. She informed me that the Death Star is a “locally advanced cancer.” Apparently the fact that it is poorly differentiated, loaded with estrogen, has a dash of progesterone, and 2+ HER2/neu means that I am a lucky candidate for chemotherapy. The FISH test hasn’t come back–the results will be in tomorrow. And if that is >2.0 I am also the winner of Herceptin!
And all of this on top of 16 weeks of Tamoxifen to help shrink the Death Star. So if shrinkage occurs, in 16 weeks I’ll have a lumpectomy and start throwing up just in time for the holidays. I always wanted a completely bald head in January. It’s a banner year ahead.
“The perfect way to make a statement.”