Middlest: “Mom {in a loud whisper}…”
Me: Yes, Jo.
Middlest {continuing in a loud whisper}: Remember how we talked about how you were going to get your boobs cut off?
Me: Yes, Jo.
Middlest {continuing on in a loud whisper}: And remember how you said that I could probably see them at some point?
Me: “Errrr… did I?
Middlest {even furthering the loud whisper}: I’d like to see them now.”
Me: “I’d like you to focus on eating your dinner. I will show you in a couple weeks. When they aren’t purple anymore.”
…..
True story. This is what is happening at my house right now. I feel, a bit, like we are just reliving the days when I nursed Harrison or Jonah and the Olders at the time said words like nipple, and milkers, and feeders on the regular. Specifically, with Harrison, I joked that by the time I left his NICU stay, there wasn’t a person in West Omaha who hadn’t seen or fondled my milked up mounds. Because when you have a 32-weeker, it takes some primping and prodding to get the girls into action.
And then, at home, I was pumping around the clock, and when I wasn’t pumping, we were syringe feeding, supplementing with a bottle, or the babes were nuzzled up to the breasts. Oh, mammary lane. Such a time that I have attempted to Eternal Sunshine. But unfortunately, the boys and my boobies are no strangers. Yeah. That might sound weird. But. All I serve up is truth here.
And now, here we are, the place and the time where we, otherwise, would have another baby being ready to be born — that two.and.a.half year-ish mark of the youngest — and we are obsessed with breasts on the Brehms, once again.
Because cancer, y’all.
And I tell you, when you have cancer of the boobies, at least the jokes flow easily. I mean, last night, I let my friends poke them and they agreed, they feel just like the jumping pillows at your local pumpkin patch. It’s almost like they punch back when you poke the airbags. Springy. In fact, pretty much anyone is welcome to give them a feel. Because I feel a little like that chick from Weird Science. Without all the hair and the legs and such. But really, the expander-air bag situation is just plain trippy. Because it’s like someone blew up a Ziplock bag, sealed it, and slipped it in my chest cavity. It’s definitely different from the droopy drinkers that just left the building, that’s for sure.
Also, there’s the fact that there’s some sort of magnet inside of the expander. And so, these friends of mine and I, we also spent some time attempting to stick refrigerator magnets to my boobs only to realize that, in fact, we needed to try to stick me to the refrigerator. Because 7th grade science. Duh. Sadly, I was unable to be successful at sticking to metal. Which, as you can imagine, was quite the letdown {no pun intended}.
I will start with fills later this week. Because right now… as I noted previously, it’s just air in there. Which is super funny because sometimes if I move, I can feel the air circulating around in there like a mini-wind tunnel. And I’ve been warned that the fills will be painful. Because what happens is, the fills of saline make the airbags HARD. Like. As rocks. Hard. And then, eventually, you get used to it. And I’m guessing by the time that happens, I’ll be 6 months down the road and ready to get my perma-plump-n-perkies.
Also, I’ve talked about my black-ish nipple. It seriously seriously seriously no joking around here, looks like your newborns-belly-nub. I. kid. you. not. But Doc Thayer promises, it is merely epithelial sloughing. And the more concerning area, was in fact, the red/purpley bruise occurring around the areola. Because who doesn’t love to use the word areola AMAP. Right? For the redness, I went on an antibiotic and we’re hoping that righty shapes up soon or she’ll have to ship out. Okay. Not really. But I do like to threaten her. Because I want to nip this sitch in the bud. ASAP.
Also, last night, I was bathing and the Littlest stood by my bath for about 5 minutes. He would lift his shirt, point to his belly button, point to my belly-button-nub-nip and then giggle. Over. And over. I am pretty sure he was trying to communicate using his made up language that he thinks my belly-button-nipple-nub is about to go. Maybe I will soon have to have a bon-nip-vage party.
I think it’s probably somewhat easier still having my own nipples. My own moles that have always been present. And incisions only below the breasts. But I have to ask myself how my boys’ views of breasts and femininity might be changed from this chapter in our lives. And maybe you find it inappropriate that my boys are even privy to seeing the private parts but sheesh, people, if I had to hide my bits and tits every moment of the day right now, it would be quite a feat. And hiding the fact that the girls, they are a changin’ – would be extremely hard to hide given the fact that I am pretty much the Queen of Doing Nothing and haven’t lifted a finger for months. Plus, if you’ll recall, my bras used to, ironically enough, pretty much be filled with air, so the physical difference will be apparent, I am sure. After all, post phase 2 reconstruction, I’m gonna have boobs that float in the water, so I am told. Won’t that be a fun party trick?
The Middlest might have the most questions about the boobs. And he often wonders if his boobs will have to undergo such things in the future. I tell him, I sure hope not… but stranger things have happened. The Littlest is mostly stuck on the fact that I am not his main caretaker these days — or really, these last six months. But the Oldest seems mostly pleased with being able to say cancer-free whenever possible. And I can’t say as I disagree with his excitement.
For now, I am taking each day as it comes. Attempting to keep my wits and my tits in check. Trying hard to embrace the pseudo-Franken-boobies that now inhabit my chest. And attempt to be less nervous about my future, my “survival rate”, and radiation — and more focused on the fact that I am getting an upgrade for free — even if I never knew I wanted one.
{And FWIW, I wanted to sell them calling them, “Dirks”. No joke}