Breast Cancer Journey

Watching my hair fall out in clumps wasn't the worst part of getting cancer nor was the surgery that took my left boob. It was the aftermath.

I wondered if losing a breast meant that I wasn't a real woman anymore. Would my husband still find me attractive? Thankfully, I didn't have to worry about that for long. My Honey was great and a few days after my surgery he even admitted to having sexy dreams about me. And get this, in his dreams, I was wearing negligee but I had a mastectomy. I was shocked by this heartfelt confession, but he explained that it was because "it was you" and that he loved me and my body, however it changed. It was a relief to me that part of our relationship wouldn't suffer from my cancer surgeries and treatments. And then I realized that the real issue was how I saw myself.

It wasn't so much the scar that bothered me because the surgeon did a great job. What bothered me was the unevenness. At first, there was one large boob next to a no boob. And then later, it became one large boob next to one small one. I felt very self conscious about how I looked. My heart always sunk when I saw someone glance down at my chest. No one ever said anything but just having them notice hurt and motivated me to become very creative in camouflaging my perceived flaws.

It's been four years since my mastectomy and I've spent most of the time trying to hide the size difference to the outside world. I wear large flowy shirts and stay away from vibrant colors that might make people notice me. When I had no hair, I would wrap a scarf around my bald head and draped it over my shoulder to cover my non-boob. I even tried a fake boob, but it was more noticeable because it was so much more perky than the other one. And I would sweat and it would get gross really fast. So, I gave up on that really quickly. After chemo, my hair came back with avengence. Now, it's so long that sometimes I use it to cover up one boob. I also use a handbag thrown over my shoulder and arranged in front of one boob. During colder months, jackets and sweaters are an easy fix. At home or with family, I don't even try to hide it. 

And my youngest, who was two at the time of my cancer diagnosis, will occasionally ask when I'm getting my larger boob. Sadly, my oldest's comments have been focused around the worry that he might also have a tumor. We have had a lot of conversations with both my boys about cancer and recovery. They had some anxiety but we worked through it with a therapist. Mostly caused by being separated from me those times I had to be hospitalized for serious infections. Trauma therapy is a very important step that I recommend for parents who go through cancer. Kids notice more than you realize and they need help processing it all. And really...so do the parents.

After my first reconstructive surgery, my tissue expander gave me a small boob. It looked better and I felt better because my body was on the way back to normal. But the expander was a failure because somehow it flipped (it happens sometimes, who knew?) and that meant my surgeon couldn't fill it to do its job of expanding my chest tissue to allow room for an implant. But my surgeon suggested that we replace it with a small implant and allow it to stretch the skin. Then later, we could add another slightly bigger implant and then work on downsizing the other side.

I was super excited about the plan, but then Covid happened and I'm high risk. I felt stuck and felt it would be better if I waited until there was a vaccine. 

Fast forward to 2021. I was able to get fully vaccinated but strangely not motivated to get the surgery. My mind was racing with all these thoughts.

Would getting the last surgery bring me back to normal? Would it erase all the pain and struggles that I went through making them meaningless? Would I stop being a cancer survivor and just become a woman who had had cancer?

I was afraid that having two great looking boobs would somehow mean I forgot my cancer experience or worse that I wasn't honoring it. And mixed in there somewhere was survivor's guilt. Some of the women who had been in treatment with me, shared their snacks with me, told me jokes to encourage me, women who had families who loved them just like mine did...women who hadn't made it. And then there were those patients that had to do more rounds of chemo or radiation than me. It wasn't fair. Why was I so lucky? 

I was a mess. But I had help. My support team was my family, friends, therapists and medical professionals. Without them, I don't know where I'd be.

So finally, I called my surgeon's office and told them that I'd like to make an appointment to schedule my surgery. I'm waiting for my insurance's approval to arrive in my mailbox. Each day that I open it, my heart beats hard against the inside of my ribs and my stomach bubbles from anxiety. But someday soon, I'll open that letter. Someday soon, I'll dress in that purple hospital gown and get drawn on by my surgeon. Someday I'll wake up with two boobs the same size.

I won't be the same. I won't forget. I'll keep my scars as precious gifts to remind me of how blessed I am. Also, I learned that I am not my boobs. They are a part of me but they don't make me who I am. And most importantly, I will encourage women to empower themselves to become their own healthcare advocate.