I’ve delayed writing this post because it’s very raw for me still. I am having a hard time dealing with this and I am not sure why yet. I think I knew the many months ago when all this started I would have a hard time dealing with this. Scars, no problem. Scars are like grey hair, or wrinkles, they show you have lived and survived. I can do scars. They don’t frighten me, they don’t bother me. I think I knew way back then that dealing with a breast that would possibly be formed differently than the other and smaller would bother me. It would be the thing that would assault my being to the core, shake my foundation. Between that and seeing Hubby’s visual reaction to some of the before and after pictures at the Plastic Surgeon’s office, as much as he tried to hide them, made me choose to have my right breast restructured after the lumpectomy and my left breast reduced to match.
I figured Dr. Goldberg would make them look like smaller versions of what I already had. That is what I had hoped. Scars, I can do scars. There would be scars, those would be my battle wounds, my reminders that I beat cancers ass. When I first saw them the day after surgery, I was dismayed. They were high, and perky, and looked like round balls stuck to my chest. My husband thought she had added silicon. They didn’t look real. She was proud that she could make my real boobs look like fake boobs. I was dismayed, horrified. I had great boobs. They looked like real boobs, and they had a great shape. I know there are probably many women who would have loved to have my boobs. The extra dense breast tissue kept them from sagging as much as they could have, made them heavy, but held them up on my chest. Made me a higher risk for breast cancer, as I found out, but they were still great boobs. I wanted those breasts, just smaller. Not 14 year old teenage breasts perched high up on my chest wall.
Then the Monday after surgery, Dr. Goldberg pulled out the drain. Told me the swelling will start to go down, my breasts would settle. Ok, maybe I would still get the boobs I had envisioned or something a little closer to that vision, no perky fake looking boobs.
Since that day I have noted the swelling starting to go down, bit by bit, and subtle changes to each breast as the swelling reduces and my breasts settle.
Friday I had a follow up appointment with my Primary Care Physician. I saw the Nurse Practitioner, not my PCP. That’s alright, I like the NP. We talked about the surgeries, my discomfort, getting Toradal instead of Norco to deal with the discomfort, how the steri-strips are starting to lift. She offered to cut off the curled ends, this would help keep the steri-strips in place longer, which she feels is the best for the incision healing. We agreed to have her snip off the curled ends, and I pulled off my shirt and removed the compression bra. I really noticed the differences in my breasts from my top view. Left breast is still high, perky, round, fake looking. It’s not so stiff now, it is starting to jiggle just a little bit. My right breast, is pulls to the right, droops, not just droop, it hangs, it’s not round it is squared off at the bottom. Dr. Goldberg said she made the right breast slightly bigger than the left because radiation will shrink it. It looks physically smaller than my left breast. Don’t look, just don’t look. Let the PA cut off the curled tapes, and get the compression bra back on.
I ignored what I was seeing. Dr. Goldberg knows what she is doing. There has to be a reason why my right breast is so drastically different than my left breast.
Friday night I had a hard time sleeping. I barely slept, could not get to sleep, and could not stay asleep. I read most of the night. When I got up in the morning so I could take my next dose of Toradal, I set myself up on the chaise so I could nap before the kids came over for dinner. The Middle Son had requested we have dinner Friday or Saturday night because he had to work Sunday night. We all agreed to Saturday night for our weekly gathering. After a brief visit from the neighbor I slept on the chaise. Hubby had taken a nap as well, but woke before I did. Once I did wake, I decided I needed a shower before the kids all showed up.
I told Hubby I was going to clean up a bit and got myself ready to shower. As I faced the bathroom mirror, with its big pink words spelled out around the edges, that Hubby put there as my constant reminder – Treatable, Curable, Survivable, Temporary, I looked at myself in my compression bra and could see even with my breasts trussed up, the right one is smaller, droopier, not even the same shape anymore as the left one. I removed the bra and took my shower. I was quick, and was in and out in less than 5 minutes I think. I took my time patting dry, no rubbing.
Once again, I stood facing that mirror, the mirror that reminds me I am a survivor with the bright pink letters spelling out the words first told to us that day back in September, Treatable, Curable, Survivable, Temporary, and the towel slipped as I was not holding it, had tucked a corner in to hold it in place. I was not quick enough to stop it from falling down and exposing my breasts. There it was, full frontal view of what I had only seen from looking down, or from the trussed up frontal view with the compression bra in place. My right breast is a mess. It’s miss-shaped, it pulls a lot to the right, it sags, not just droop, it sags down, is square at the bottom. Even when I prop it up it looks smaller than my left breast. Exactly how it would have looked if I didn’t have surgery to repair the tissue from the lumpectomy. And my left breast, it’s still that perky, fake looking thing, it just jiggles now. How is this supposed to be better than not having plastic surgery? This is what I was trying to avoid. The tears slipped out of my eyes, down my face. This is not “Temporary”.
Suck it up Kim, how many women lose their breasts entirely. They manage just fine. This is a stupid thing to fall apart over. It’s just a damn boob. And the tears keep falling, faster and faster. And my breath starts to hitch. I hear Hubby come out of his office, I say I silent prayer, please don’t let him ask to come in, I can’t, I just can’t have him see me, see this, see me fall apart over a stupid boob. He went back into his office, I could hear him preparing to play on his drums for a bit. Good timing. I grabbed my towel and headed to our bedroom. I tried to concentrate on picking out clothes to wear, but the tears just would not stop, I could not see. I lay down on the bed, in my spot, I wanted to curl into a little ball, hide. But my boobs hurt. I tried pulling my nest of pillows around me to support my breasts and allow me to cry, but nothing was working. Then I remembered the Pink Teddy Bear sent to me by Dad and Mom #2 at the beginning of this journey. Hubby was still banging away on his drums, he could not hear me. I got the Bear and brought it back to bed and sobbed. I sobbed over my loss of my great breasts, sobbed over my decision to change them in an attempt to not have one breast be so different than the other, sobbed over the fact that I was sobbing over a stupid breast, sobbed over the fact that I remember the look Hubby had when he saw some of the “disfigured” breasts in the before and after pictures. Felt his recoil. Sobbed because he’s already afraid to touch me, afraid to hurt me, and he sees every time I bare my breasts to a doctor. Will he ever touch me again? I sob because I am being so insecure and basing my worth on one stupid boob. I sob because I am in pain, uncomfortable and still dealing with healing and I am still facing what I had hoped to avoid. I sob because I got through chemo without once having to hold a pink teddy bear to help me through and this is what has broken me. I sob because I am not strong enough to face this deformity, and I should be. I sob because I can’t stop.
I finally get the water works to stop, figure out what to wear, and get myself pulled together. Just in time, the Darling Daughter will be here shortly. Hubby finishes up playing on his drums after the Darling Daughter arrived, and comes out, stands behind me where I sit on the sofa, leans down and kisses my head. He asks how I am doing. I want to say, “I’m OK”, like normal, but it will not come out. I finally whisper, ask me tomorrow. I can feel the Darling Daughter staring at me. Her eyes boring into me trying to find what is wrong. I can hear Hubby hold his breath. He finally exhales, and says OK, and kisses my head again. I made it through the night, tired, and trying very hard to keep my heartache buried, deal with it another time, this is family. I love family time. I want to savor the family time, soak up the conversations, the teasing, and the love. The grandson and grandpa talking, laughing. The son-in-law coming up with a great one-liner that has us all laughing. I make it through, soaking everything in, letting it fill my heart up, and pushing my dragon back into a tiny ball. I am exhausted.
The kids leave, and the Toothless Wonder Cat comes in. As Hubby and I sit on the sofa to feed and love on the kitty, he asks me to spill, what is wrong. I lay it all out. Tell him I tried to stop the crying, I know I should not be crying over this, I am alive, I beat cancer. I should not care that my breasts don’t look the same anymore. I could not tell him that this part, this boob part, that’s not Temporary, but I think he heard that anyway. He held my hand, he said all the right words, but my heart still sinks, my dragon still unfurls and it keeps poking at the spot that makes the tears leak out of my eyes. I keep telling the damn dragon I don’t need to cry over this, but he doesn’t listen. This is going on for days. I still have boobs, who cares what they look like? Who cares they don’t match? Hubby keeps reminding me that Dr. Goldberg has a plan, which includes radiation, which does affect the skin, the tissue, it shrinks it, changes the texture. This process of matching your breasts is not done until radiation is over and everything settles after that. He reminds me that chemo brain is still in effect, my patience is for shit. I don’t have any right now. My ability to think outside the box is still limited. I may not see this, but he still does. I recognize this as well. I know my brain is still not the brain I used to have. He reminds me that this is not helping me in dealing with what I am physically seeing.
He also tells me that if in a year from now, if I still don’t like my breast, we’re not dirt poor, we can find another plastic surgeon or two, or three, get other opinions on what can be done to “fix” the right boob. He reminds me that he doesn’t love me for my boobs, never has. Yeah, they were great boobs, but they are not what are going to make or break our relationship. He will love me no matter the size or shape of my boobs. They are there to fill out the cut of my clothes, so they hang correctly, so I am able to find clothes that fit. He says in a bra, nothing and no one will be able to tell the difference. He reminds me of a friend we have who didn’t have reconstruction after a mastectomy, she uses a prosthesis, and when she’s mad at her husband she takes it out and throws it at him. We still love her, her husband still loves her. She is not her boob. I feel stupid that this is what is taking me down emotionally. It’s just a boob. But this is not Temporary, like all my chemo side effects… I will live with this the rest of my life. I know Hubby says we can get it fixed if the whole plan does not come together, but now I am “knife shy”. I already had one plastic surgeon tell me this would be good. And right now, it’s not good.
I am trying, really trying hard, to get past this, to figure out why this is the thing that has taken me so low, has activated my dragon who continues to unfurl, stretch, and push. Poke the areas deep inside that make me feel less than, bring me low, squeeze the tears out of my eyes when I least expect it. Somehow I will find my center again. It may not be today or tomorrow, but I will find it, and put that dragon back in its place.
Life is remembering TCS and T
