So, my boobs are filled with air. Truly. The space that used to be comprised of breast tissue is now a cavern. Okay, maybe not a cavern. But a bubble? Maybe. Or probably more like a blob — I guess, no… A blob would be filled with something. And my current spaces where my slumpy sag bags used to sit, well, they are now filled with tissue expanders. I dunno what I should call them. I’m not sure I want to give them a pseudonym or an alias during their rental span.
I have two airbags. One in lefty and one in righty. And the same amount of space in between as I’ve always had. You would think, “ooooh, airbags, light and easily handled”. But man alive… these suckers are painful. And in a week, they will begin slowly expanding the temps with liquid — saline — and then, eventually, in 4-6 months, they will take out the expanders, and they will put in filled, normal, saline implants. And then, I’ll live happily ever after.
Oh, gosh. Of course not. I won’t be happily ever after. I will deal with this for always. In some way. Like people deal with the baggage left behind from all the sentences that make up their stories.
And so I think to myself, “I could have not gone through reconstruction. I could have had a full — non-nipple — sparing mastectomy on each side. But instead, when I awoke from surgery and first looked down, though my chest felt like a 50 lb 4 year old had settled his weight on my chest, instead, I had the equivalent of reebok pumps in parking stall one and two. These two, bosom buddies quite literally. They have always been a part of me. What would have happened if the cupboards were bare. If those spaces were not revamped?”
In one moment, in fact, I wondered why, on earth, I decided to even get reconstructed. If I truly wasn’t one smidgen concerned about body image… about my appearance… than I shouldn’t have needed boobs. Or nipples. I should have been able to love my body for exactly what had happened to it.
But I just didn’t even really think about that prior to the surgery.
I’m 34 years old. And I want to feel feminine. I want to see myself similarly to other people of my gender. I can’t lie about those facts. But mostly, in order to move forward from living in a season of being a breast cancer patient… in order to start living as a survivor… I need to not focus on scars every single day. I need to not let a lack of breasts become my story. At least not the main character.
So now. I’m dealing with the pain of expanders. And I have to have to have to admit… this has been the worst part of the whole process so far. And as one of you reminded me, it’s more about having had surgery and healing from that, than it is of any symptoms that are about a cancerous tumor. Sure, I had to have this surgery because of cancer. But I could have had surgery for many reasons. And all of those would have required a time of healing.
But I’m not gonna lie. This healing part hurts like a B. My boobs look like they got into a bar fight. My nipples, they are the worst for the wear. And I’m fearful that Mr. righty’s nip might actually fall off in the night as it resembles the appearance of a baby’s unnecessary umbilical nub. And if so, I won’t be surprised if the Littlest snags it up to snack on before I can get it in my hot little hands {think Miranda’s freakout post the cat snagging Brady’s on SitC}. I have tried to ease off of the pain meds with little success to date and I sort of hate that. I hate being on meds. But this whole cancer coaster has welcomed a whole bevy of prescriptions that I would not have anticipated really needing — sleeping aides, anti-anxiety pills, anti-nausea meds, and of course, chemo {oy.}. So, I’m going to stick with where I’m at for a week or so and then try to rock the boat again.
I can’t hug the boys unless they are very deliberately placed. And I can’t lift Little Man… no matter how many grunts he gives. And as of now, I can’t drive.
To me… this post-surgery part is harder than chemo. But perhaps that’s because post-chemo, it was my decision how much I decided to do. Post any surgery, you absolutely have to follow some steep orders in order to heal correctly. So, other people have to do.
Tomorrow, I meet with my beloved Oncology team to give them a big hi-five post surgery pathology coming back. Next Tuesday, the girls will get a gush. A little fill of saline to continue the expansion process. And then I will get more and more fills in an effort to get expanded to a well-stretched state prior to possible radiation. Because… radiated skin doesn’t really stretch. But again, I think if I had to say what’s been the worst part so far, it’s a momma having to give up my “duties as assigned” every hour of the day in the short-term in order to heal for the long-term.
I thought about it again today though. I am cancer-free. What? I mean, first — that means that I don’t have cancer. Second — that also means that, at one point, I did have cancer. Weird. Odd. Strange.
What a crazy life. What a crazy way to get a boob job {which, I don’t know how different this is from a boob job but you who have gone under the knife for your own procedures — ow. It hurts. I don’t know how you did it.}. What a crazy thing to know that my boobs are basically mini basketballs right now. And they will pump {clap} them up, to make them into their new shape and size, over the next half of a year.
If you would have told 20 year old me that between child-feeding and breast cancer, I would spend over 5 years of my future obsessed with my breasts, well… I never.
But hey. This is where we are. My post-baby form bares mom-hips. My boobs have breast-cancered-nips. And my hair has evacuated the dance floor. And in a year, I plan to have the same smile, breathing fresh breath into my healthy lungs, and full of a whole new dose of joy.
Today, I will lay. That’s mostly what I do these days. And maybe, in telling you, I will feel less guilty about that. Today, I will write. I will enjoy my fairy Godmother taking care of my sweet littles and their mama. And I will live to fight another day. And another. And another.
The pain will subside. The scars will remain. This part will always have been hard. But I’m surviving. And for the most part… thriving.
