Back in December, my plastic surgeon wanted to put me on the schedule for final reconstruction, otherwise known as the exchange surgery. His reason was so that I would have a goal, something to look forward to, something good. He gets it. Treating cancer patients is more than just our disease. We are still us, struggling with a host of physical issues and sometimes mental. He was right. I counted down the weeks to surgery with the same excitement I had to finishing my last round of chemotherapy.
But what does final reconstruction or exchange surgery mean? Unless you’ve traveled this hellacious road of cancer or are close to someone who has, odds are, it’s a foreign concept. At the time of reconstruction, expanders were placed into my chest and I was closed up. Slowly, they were expanded with saline to a size larger that I wanted so that there would be extra skin. They remain in there all through chemotherapy. This allows the skin to adjust and you don’t want surgery while undergoing chemo. There’s no immune system to fight germs and such. Why was I looking forward to this? Easy. Expanders don’t look like breasts, nor do they feel like them. I could feel the edges when I moved certain ways, they were lumpy and hard water filled bags of rough plastic. Doesn’t sound pleasant, does it? After the skin has stretched and settled and numbers bounce back weeks after chemo, time to swap them out for implants, silicon in my case.
I trust my plastic surgeon and his opinion and judgement entirely. I thought I wanted a full C, he said that would be too big and he was right. So, for the exchange, all I asked was for him to make me look proportional and perky and don’t leave me in too much pain. I was marked up and drawn on and then whisked away to the operating room where there was a team waiting for me. Three nurses were pregnant, I was told that would bring me good luck and it made me smile. We all chatted about kids and school and summer vacation when I suddenly said “I feel real mellow.” Laughter, Lights out. I woke up in recovery, with a serious case of the munchies, but I’m picky. They bought me my usual cranberry juice and blueberry muffin. I don’t like cranberry juice nor blueberry muffins but every time I wake up from anesthesia, that’s what I want. Go figure. I was home by noon. Fast and simple and relatively pain free! I like that!
After the “exchange” surgery, I got to wear Satan’s Corset from Hell. Nice try with the lavender and pink flowers, still ain’t cute nor comfortable. The new dynamic duo was squished and wrapped up tight for a week. Did you know that they come with their own ID card? Will they get proofed? Time will tell! Anyway, curiosity got the better of me. I did not peek, I swear. Instead, I googled the the size and profile of my squishy guys and got a plethora of boob pics on my phone. I felt so dirty but it was hilarious! I had a basic idea what to expect at the unveiling of the bodacious boys. Boys. They are boys. Girls give ya nothing but trouble and my bitches tried to kill me. Felicia was trifling and she had to go!
Speaking of dirty, no showers nor baths for a week. Dude. Way to send my OCD into a tailspin. I made do with sink baths. That first shower after the plastic surgeon unleashed the puppies was nothing short of heavenly! Speaking of unleashing, once the corset was off and so were the dressings, everything appears to have healed just fine. Obviously there is bruising and swelling which will subside in a few weeks. During the double mastectomy, I had a lot of tissue removed, as much as the surgical oncologist could. What does this mean for my implants? Very thin tissue to cover them, that means I could get rippling, pending the way I move. In about 6 months, after everything has settled and healed, my plastic surgeon will do fat grafting to help my right side out a bit. Lipo. Good luck finding a spot to grab enough fat from... but hell, I’m totally down for this! Overall, I am thrilled with them. Might I add that I think they’re better than what I had prior to cancer?
Yes, it was a fast and easy procedure with an easy recovery. There’s supposed to be down time with this kind of surgery, no driving for a week. I don’t have that luxury. I was up and driving the following morning and life went on, just as it did with my double mastectomy. Maybe being a mother gives me superhuman strength and I just get shit done and have no time to complain. Whatever. I got through it.
Please don’t liken this to a breast augmentation. Not even close. This ain't no boob job. Why? Well, remember, this was an exchange operation. I had a double mastectomy. That means two rather large incisions across my chest where all the tissue was removed down to the muscle. I was left with nothing. In fact, I was caved in few a few days until the expansion began. Expanders placed, sewn up, blown up, open and silicon goes in, sew up again. Same incision from the double mastectomy. I’ve been opened up and stitched up like a tattered ragdoll. If you cringed for a second, you got my point. In an augmentation situation, a small incision is made where it would be barely noticeable and the implants are placed under the breast tissue or muscle. They don’t get the smiley faces across each boob from the scar like I do. I call them happy boobs. I’m happy to be rid of the cancer. I’m happy to be alive. I’m real happy these won’t ever sag!
There are plenty of silver linings in this chaotic journey of cancer, at least for me. The loss of my natural breasts means nothing to me. Don’t get me wrong, they were indeed quite nice but they don’t define me. With or without boobs, I am me. Nothing really changed there. I am a little older, a little battered but certainly wiser. I don’t mourn their loss. I had expanders which looked quite real and I got to live with some nice big ones for a few months, which was fun! I did not want permanent ones that big, too porn star looking for my puny frame. I now have a pair that suits me perfectly. I don’t mourn the loss of my long auburn and fuschia hair. It doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of life. It really is just hair. I thought I would be a little out of sorts with the grey hair coming in. I’m not. I really like it. It’s kind of funky and seems to be the new trend with the younger women. I’ve earned these grey hairs. All of them. That’s all I have, grey hairs. They are a reminder that I made it through something catastrophic. They are my mark of a warrior…and worrier. I look at is as an opportunity to reinvent my looks. How often in life do we as women do this? We are usually too afraid to take a risk with our appearance. I’ve learned something valuable. Life is too short not to take a risk and have a little fun when you can. We can always look for the good, if we choose…
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