The New Girls

By Janice Anne Wheeler

Death.  My rare genetic mutation is almost certainly a death sentence.  I will get Cancer in my lifetime. There is one way to beat the odds; Prophylactic Double Mastectomy. Sacrifice my breasts, yes, remove my breasts, and replace them with The New Girls.  This surgery is not for the faint of heart.  Removing healthy organs is unnatural, almost unthinkable, and surgery is risky.  But Breast Cancer is a horrible disease and has taken so many people I loved.

When I faced this choice, there was no information.  I was confused, scared, uncertain. Was this too drastic or was I saving my life?   I made my decision, underwent the surgery.  During the recovery, I wrote this book so that others may have perspectives and information that I did not.  I now understand how little awareness there is of this mutation, known as BRCA.  There is even less understanding of the solution I chose.

The New Girls is the story of how I faced this frightening reality; hysterectomy, double mastectomy, the acceptance of the new me.  It has been a wild ride, an emotional one.  If you or someone you know is facing such a decision, hopefully, The New Girls will give comfort, knowing they are not alone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Janice Anne Wheeler
• Release date: Feb 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386886723

Janice Anne Wheeler

Janice Anne Wheeler is a Chef Entrepreneur who is very excited to now be known as an author!  She grew up all over Upstate New York, graduated Cornell University Hotel School and headed West.  She is passionate about family, friends, healthy local food and Mother Nature.  Travel is in her blood, taking her amazing places, meeting incredible characters along the way.   Her Colorado catering business & organic gardens were her creative outlet for two decades; that morphed into writing, sharing her unique outlook on the world.  Still obsessed with food, flavors and nutrition, now she cooks for her 'Friend Basket' (curious? read the book!) and donates her skills as a Private Chef to organizations such as Susan G. Komen, Wounded Warriors, American Cancer Society’s Hope Lodge, North Country Chamber of Commerce.  'Spicing Up The World' is her Secret Spice business; better Google that and get some! Janice returned to New York three years ago to spend time with her father, investigated her genetics and found she possesses the BRCA2 Genetic Mutation.   Without many resources to draw on, she made a drastic choice to save her life, and The New Girls was written as she recovered from a Preventive Double Mastectomy.  This experience brought a strong desire to raise awareness of Breast Cancer, genetics and BRCA, the choices it entails.  This first-time author has written a raw, personal, memoir. There are choices, drastic, serious choices, and The New Girls is written in a style you will not put down.  It is her profound hope that this resource helps others trying to face a decision similar to her own.  It has been a wild ride, and the journey continues.  If you or someone you know is facing such a decision, hopefully, The New Girls will give comfort, knowing that you are not alone. Her second book, "On Hold", tells of the precious time spent with her father at the end of his life.  Her third, "Say What Needs to be Said", is in progress, with other ideas pounding around inside of her brain.  She is healthy, happy, humorous and ready to share The New Girls with the world.  Follow her!  Write a review.  Share her story.

Book preview

TABLE OF CONTENTS

The New Girls

DRASTIC CHOICES

PRELUDE

MARCH 7 

The second drastic choice

MARCH 8

Not moving

MARCH 9

Moving

LAST JULY

Butterflies

MARCH 11

The inconceivable strength

MARCH 12

I did the right thing

MARCH 14

Not natural

I DON’T KNOW EXACTLY WHAT DAY

An extreme moment of self-pity

MARCH 15

I finally look

MARCH 16

How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you are?

MARCH 17

A humbling experience

MARCH 20

Things I never wanted to know

LAST WINTER

Our Treasure

MARCH 23

Perspectives forever changed

MARCH 26

This book

MARCH 27

The downside

MARCH 30

Going forward

APRIL FOOL’S DAY, ONE YEAR AGO

Perspectives forever changed, part II

APRIL 5

A bump in the road

APRIL 6

Fixing the bump and other conversations

APRIL 7

Sunshine

APRIL 13, a Friday

Hmmm.

APRIL 16

Tiny victories

TWO YEARS AGO

Everything happens for a reason?

APRIL 20

Nurse John

THREE YEARS AGO

What to keep and what to leave behind

APRIL 30

Scars

MAY 1

I hate May

MAY 11

Liposuction

MAY 13

Something normal

MAY 15

A blast from the past

MAY 22

Say what needs to be said

TWENTY-TWO YEARS AGO

My strong mother

LAST AUGUST

The first drastic choice

THIRTY YEARS AGO

Where the hell is Montana?

NOVEMBER 4, 2017

The Woman on the Plane

OCTOBER 16, 2017

Strong women everywhere

NOVEMBER 5, 2017

My plastic surgeon

JUNE 1

Summer

JUNE 9

The worst part is really not that bad

JUNE 10

Sacred ground

JUNE 12

My Friend Basket

JUNE 16

Another mystery

JUNE 17

Father’s Day

JUNE 18

We feel like regulars

JUNE 19

Light at the end of the tunnel, bright, sunshiny light

JUNE 21

Mother Nature’s amazing chorus

JUNE 25

Inspecting The New Girls

JULY 4

The many definitions of Sexy

JULY 6

Wandering the planet

JULY 7

Appreciate the little things

JULY 8

Would you know if you didn’t know?

JULY 10

The most impactful appointment

JULY 14

The bravest people I know

JULY 17

The tunnel ends

JULY 20 

12,000 person sing-a-long

AUGUST 2

Awareness

AUGUST 27

Can you control your destiny?

SEPTEMBER 17

I am determined to tell my story

SEPTEMBER 19

Fifty

SEPTEMBER 26

Influence as many human beings as you can

OCTOBER 23

Now I want people to know

NOVEMBER 7

The new normal

UNEXPECTEDLY BACK TO MAY 4th

Good butterflies

NOVEMBER 15

Cheers

The New Girls

PRELUDE

ON THE AFTERNOON OF May 24, 2002 I was driving west on I-70 in Colorado.  As I crested the hill above Georgetown my phone rang.  On the line was my Mother’s former oncologist.  Former, because he did not save her life.  Former, because she is gone and he is no longer on my list of employables.  Former, because I was done with him.  Former, as of yesterday.  She had died yesterday.  Yesterday. 

He did not take time to empathize or offer small talk.  Instead he was direct and to the point, an attribute I generally admire.  There are a couple of studies, he ventured, that I would like you to be part of.  The first, an experiment with tamoxifen, I turn down flat.  No poisons for me, thanks.  I had little use for Big Pharma then and not much more now. 

The second study is a new genetic test, he explained.  It could tell you of your risk.  Not interested, I replied, with all the youth and anger of a thirty-something who lost her mother without even a month’s notice.  She was my best friend, my mentor, my teacher, my critic, my sounding board, my travel companion.  I was a bit lost without her.  Your risk is probably high, he persisted.  I imagine so, I told him, hanging up the phone, but I do not want to know.

MARCH 7

IT IS JUST BEFORE 6AM on a wintery Wednesday in 2018.  The sun is barely rising over the Green Mountains of Vermont.  The eerie grayish light is interesting enough to snap a photo.  In spite of the butterflies in my stomach, I pause and capture the moment.

We walk into the third floor Surgical Waiting Room and tell the receptionist my name.  They have the operating room reserved for a seven-and-a-half-hour block, she says, raising her eyebrows at me.  I glance at my brother, my mouth already dry.  I don’t think we need that long, I replied.

We were here, in exactly this room, talking to exactly this receptionist, at exactly the same time, for another surgery, last August.  Then it was a foreign world, outside our realm of experience, outside our realm of knowledge.  Now we know more, but wish we did not.

The next hour is taken up with officials and consent forms and nurses and two surgeons and magic markers to ensure matching incisions and anesthesiologists and IV’s and a gown that opens in the back.  At 7:20 they wheel me into an incredibly bright, blue, intimidating, industrial room with at least a dozen masked, scrubbed experts—-straight out of a Hollywood movie.  Their eyes are on me, wondering about today’s work, wondering what brings me here.  I feel my pulse go a little crazy, there are butterflies, lots of butterflies, in my stomach. 

You cannot undo this, one of the Surgeons had told me, months ago.  You have to be sure.  With practiced ease they transfer me onto the operating table, introduce those eyes above the masks I had not yet met, and anesthetize me.

The next time I see a clock it is ten past five.  The sunrise was barely peaking over the Green Mountains when I got here, and it is dark when I reawaken.  My surgeons used every minute of the seven and a half hours. 

I will never be the same. 

8PM

The nurse requests that I stand up and walk, go to the bathroom.  This seems insurmountable.  I refer to myself as a strong girl often enough, yet I am challenged to the core by how I feel at this moment.  Inch by inch I shift my legs and feet to the left side of the bed, experimentally, gingerly.  As I attempt to stand and straighten, I do not feel strong.  The nurse asks me the question I will become incredibly familiar with over the next two days; On a scale of one-to-ten with ten being the worst pain you can imagine; how would you rate your pain?  Twenty-four, I promptly answered.  Her smile was surprised, even a bit unbelieving.  Not kidding, I breathed; my inhales only go down a third of the way.  The rest of my torso will not straighten, my arms, when I move them even slightly, remind me how much damage has been done, how extensive the procedure is.  I am on my own with the basic bodily functions, those things you take for granted in every day life.  Incredible begins to describe it; far different than anything I have ever experienced. 

10PM

What looks like a twelve-year-old in a white Doctor’s coat appears at my bed side.  To my drugged vision it was Doogie Howser.  He tells me I should get up and walk.  I tell him no.  He tells me I should try to use the bathroom again.  I tell him no.  He asks me if I can lift my arms.  I tell him no.  He asks me if he can check my surgical site.  I tell him that’s probably his job and he hesitantly unsnaps the backless gown at the shoulders, exposing my chest.  The incisions are beautiful, he tells me.  I smile, just a little.  They don’t feel beautiful, I tell him. 

I ask him for a drink of water.  He is tall and awkward, surprised at my request, but tries his best.  Perhaps they don’t teach bendy straws in Med school.  His intentions are golden.

The nurse comes in for my vital signs around mid-night and comments on the young Doctor.  He always seems so nervous, she observes.  I nod.  His responsibilities seem huge to me; wandering a teaching hospital at night walking into rooms with no idea what to expect, what he will see, who he will meet, what they will say, what he will say.  He sees people when they feel their worst, or are elated.  Imagine the tremendous range of emotions in a hospital, from the pain and joy of childbirth to milestones such as mine to death and unanswerable questions.  I briefly contemplate that many years of education; I could not have done it.

2AM

My pulse drops to forty-four, which sets off an alarm.  They reprogram the monitoring machine to alarm at forty.  My pulse drops to thirty-nine, which sets off the alarm.  It is against regulation to turn it off.  I do not sleep. 

4AM

My entire torso is on fire.  Not exaggerating the pain level, it feels damn close to top of the chart ten at all times.  Bring on the oxy-whatever it is, I think, dependency be damned!  It is the only thing that calms the intensity.  I ring the nurse’s station.  She is wonderful and