Wednesday’s surgery went off without a hitch.  I’m feeling good with very little soreness. I have a drain on one side and hope to have it removed at my follow-up appointment on July 13.  I’m glad to have the surgery behind me and to take one more step toward a return to normal life. 🙂

Tomorrow I go under the knife again for my reconstruction surgery.  For the past six months, I’ve had tissue expanders under my skin preparing a space for silicone implants.  It’s hard to describe what the expanders feel like, mostly as if large round rocks have been embedded under my skin, heavy, fixed and rigid.  I’m constantly aware of them and their firm inflexibility.  I hug people from the side because I can’t imagine what it must feel like to them to have these boulders (pun intended) pressed against them.  I’m really ready to get them out!

I admit that it’s a bit awkward to talk about this surgery.  Implants seem to be considered by many people to be the result of vanity or insecurity, regardless of the reason for them.  About a month ago I saw an episode of What Not to Wear, a show in which someone is selected for a wardrobe makeover.  The woman in this episode had been treated for breast cancer and chose not to have reconstruction after her double mastectomy.  She was a mother with young children and said she wanted to be a model for them to focus on inner beauty instead of outer appearances.  However, as a result, she had difficulty finding clothes that fit well, given that women’s apparel makers presume the natural shape of a woman’s body includes breasts.

While every woman has the right to and should make her own decision about reconstruction, I felt that this woman’s choice meant she was continually reminded of her cancer experience instead of being able to move on from it.  This is just my opinion, but what I saw was someone whose life was still consumed by the effects of her cancer treatment.  I’m proud of my battle scars but I don’t want to be controlled by them.  I don’t want the focus of my life to be about my cancer experience or the physical disfigurement caused by it.  In a way, it’s just a health issue I’ve had to deal with – like my broken arm in 4th grade or knee surgery in my 30s.  Yes, our experiences shape us and change us, and negative experiences probably more so.  But I feel no need to repeatedly revisit them.  Besides, it’s not like implants will return me physically to what I was before.  I will be left with large scars across the middle of each breast, and, at least unless or until I get them tattooed on, no nipples. (I wrote and erased that part a couple of times.  It feels too personal to share, one more indignity of the experience that I’m not sure I’m comfortable discussing, but in the interest of being honest and open about all of this, I’ve decided to leave it in.)

While I was in chemo, I watched several movies that dealt with cancer, to see how true the portrayal was (or, mostly, wasn’t).  Wit, starring Emma Thompson, was the best at giving the viewer a glimpse of the loss of dignity one experiences with the hordes of doctors repeatedly viewing, touching, examining and discussing your body.  It requires a healthy does of denial and maybe even detachment to get through it without tremendous embarrassment or downright humiliation.  So I choose to look at all of these experiences as merely medical.  If I had a tumor on my arm, surely there wouldn’t be the same level of embarrassment.  And if I chose to have surgery to improve the scar on my arm left by cancer treatment, no one would likely bat an eye.  But for some reason, a woman’s breasts are another story.  I guess with this post today, I’m trying to change that.  I’ll admit, it’s much easier to do so by posting it in a blog than it is to say it all out loud.  But it’s a start.

I’ve seen a t-shirt that addresses this issue in a great way.  It says, “Yes, they’re fake. My real ones tried to kill me!” I guess I’d need the version that added, “Twice!”

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