Hi friends! I’m taking a step into the “things you may not necessarily want to read from your Substacker” realm, but I thought since I have been honest with you all from the start, there’s no reason to stop now.
So as most of you know, I was diagnosed with breast cancer two years ago. Things went very quickly (surprisingly quickly considering BC’s health care system). I went from routine screening mammography to follow-up ultrasound to biopsy to surgery to radiation all within about 6 months. Throughout the process I was treated with compassion, professionalism and expediency. Within 9 months I was declared “cured”, a term not commonly tossed around in the cancer world. (And this is where I put in my public service announcement about mammograms, colonoscopies and PSA tests)
As some of you may also know, I am not a vain person when it comes to looks. I don’t consider myself a “beauty”, I rarely wear make-up, my hair style is “no fuss/no muss”. I have far more vanity about what is on the inside than the outside. But… I came away from surgery with one hang-dog puppy of a breast. I had a chunk the size of a goodly portion of chicken breast removed and the whole thing now looked like a sad, semi-deflated balloon. Only the most determined of bras would make me look vaguely symmetrical in clothing. So when my GP (yes, I have one of those and I am very sorry for those of you who don’t) suggested that I was a good candidate for reconstruction, I jumped on the idea.
Again the medical system worked in my favour. It only took a couple of months before I was in seeing a plastic surgeon. Only a little trepidation from the fact that she appeared to be a very pregnant sixteen-year old. She was totally prepared to do my surgery… after her maternity leave. (Does this woman know nothing about baby-brain? Do I really want a young doctor who is distracted by sleep depravation or breast milk let-down in the middle of my surgery?) I could see the look in her eye though. I’ve seen that look before. Laser-focused. No bullshit. I could tell without even checking that she was probably top of her class. Totally capable of compartmentalizing. Her infant child could have been held for ransom by a gang of cannibalistic tribesmen in a cave in some distant desert but my breast was all she was thinking about. Well, actually, both my breasts. See, in order to get the right one back to looking like a woman’s breast again and not some thirty-year-old mama goat’s, it was going to have to be made considerably smaller, and there resurfaces the symmetry issue again. So the left breast would have to go under the knife as well
.
Suddenly I am making the decision between a life of “female Viking warrior armour” and loose, flowing clothes, or the possibility of a Frankenstein’s monster chest. After much discussion with Graham - who was the only other person who had to live with the Viking or the monster - I decided to go for broke. Hell, I have always wondered what it would be like to be smaller, to not live with constant backache from carrying around a couple of watermelons, to maybe be able to buy frilly bras at La Vie en Rose instead of granny ones from Walmart.
Last week was the surgery. As expected the momma/surgeon came in with her eye on the prize. No time for my bad anxiety jokes or the anaesthetist’s stand-up comedy routine. She sat in front of me and drew out my new boobs onto my chest with a sharpie, then didn’t speak to me again. Just got the job done. I’m okay with lousy bedside manner if the work is good. And, as far as I can tell so far, her work was excellent.
It’s been four days so far and recovery is going well. Pain is completely manageable and the biggest thing is reminding my mind that my body isn’t allowed to do stuff. T-Rex arms, the nurse said. That means I can’t reach the coffee supplies in the morning. Can’t wear clothes that require pulling over the head. The first morning I couldn’t get to the ice pack in the freezer so had to wake Graham for it. Have I mentioned I don’t like not being independent? He’s being a saint, but I am going slightly crazy. But, hey, it’s only for another two weeks (or four if I want to do any lifting). We’ll manage. And I have new boobs.
And again, if this was tmi, sorry/not sorry. Let’s just say it’s an opportunity for you to get to know me better.
Till next time.
Sandy
Brand new boobies - next thing we know, you'll be starring in Rosie Bitts' next show! Seriously though, so glad to hear you're on the upswing and things went well. I agree, give me a surgeon with excellent skills any day over a cheerful one who doesn't quite have the focus. My hand surgeon was like that. Hope the healing goes smoothly and you feel like yourself again soon.
Wow. Thanks for sharing and so glad all went well.