Discussing Breast Cancer

I realize I have to write this post before I tell you about my mastectomy surgery. It’s the post about my reconstruction decision.

See, after you decide what cancer-eliminating surgery to get, you have to decide what reconstructive surgery to get, and there are a lot of options.

Quite frankly, not reconstructing was not an option for me. I wanted a shape after my surgery. I wanted breasts. I LOVED my breasts, not something I’ve talked about much before, but trust me, I LOVED them.

I remember my first pink silk Sassoon training bra (remember the tagline, “OOohh La La Sassoon” and the little ‘okay’ symbol on the tag? No? Well I do. Clearly.) I was too young for breasts but not at all too young for the fantastic pink silk training bra my mother bought me.

I remember the first time my newly developed breasts were noticed. I was walking from one building to another on the first day of my senior year in high school — I was a September baby so I was not even 17 — and Gerald, the president of the student council, stopped me with a ‘WOW,’ reaction because apparently I’d developed over summer vacation. I may not remember actually developing, but do remember that first day of school my senior year.

I remember the competition that the guys on my floor freshman year in college introduced between my roommate and I: whose were bigger? People actually walked by our door and voted on our memo board and we didn’t complain (actually, the tally was right on our door … how could we have allowed such graffiti to take place?). My roommate won, eventually, and if you saw her now you’d never even imagine I could be in her league.

I remember the day the boys who lived across the hall from us named my breasts after themselves because they liked them so much. Stephen claimed the one on the left, the sweet, quiet breast that was always in the shadow of the other. The one on the right became Andrew, the slightly bigger of the two, slightly rounder and ironically the one to cause me trouble one day.

I remember that same year when Craig, a fraternity brother at the beloved Phi Delt, nicknamed me ‘Cleavage’ because he said when he looked at me, that was all he saw. Actually, I remember the v-neck white t-shirt I was wearing when he nicknamed me and the exact party we were at … the FIJI paint party … amazing what neon paints can do to a white t-shirt in a neon light in a fraternity bar room.

I also remember breastfeeding my two sons, using my breasts the way that God intended me to use them for, and I remember the peaceful feeling that gave me, the nourishment that gave them, the overwhelming feeling of togetherness that gave each of us.

Yes … I loved my breasts and the identify they gave me. They weren’t being taken from me completely.

It wasn’t even that hard to choose an option b/c I’d already had radiation therapy to one side … the plastic surgeon recommended a pedicled TRAM flap and I said yes.

Little did I know how complicated that surgery would actually be for me.

Breast Cancer, Health and Wellness, Mastectomy, Reconstruction, Surgery, Women’s Health