All About the Boobs
I’ve thought long and hard about this post and how to write it. I’m not sure how appropriate it is to write publicly about boobs—especially my own—on a blog that’s tied to my business. What does one have to do with the other? I’ve reflected on whether it’s a stretch, or the dreaded TMI (Too Much Information), or perhaps even—horror—downright distasteful.
But I can’t get around it. In the beginning, when I determined that I’d write about cancer and this season of my life, I promised myself that I would be transparent, real, and true. You will get the Real Deal from me. Yes: I aim to “choose happy” and look for the positives through this journey. There have been beautiful and divine moments in cancer, which I’ve shared with you. But there are also hard things—bitter pills to swallow. There are times that feel like death; matters of great grief.
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I will undergo a bilateral mastectomy on March 15th. What was a mental mindset of Just Get Through Chemo has shifted. The chemo season is over. I survived! I celebrated. I’m thankful to have it behind me. But suddenly this surgery that was always beyond the horizon is staring me in the face, up close and in-person. It is now my Next Thing. The tunnel of time is short and dark; I feel anxious and alone.
I risk offending my dear friends and family; these wonderful people who have gathered around me in support. Ty loves me no matter what and assures me again and again that he just wants me cancer-free. My mother promises me that I’ll handle this next step with grace and my own brand of joie de vivre. But I’m about to amputate both my boobs and I’m not sure that anyone can understand.
I am grieving. Sometimes I find myself overwhelmed with sadness. I don’t want to do this.
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There are some things I think you should know. Reconstruction and Breast Augmentation are completely, totally different surgeries with different outcomes. You may already know this, but I certainly did not. When I was first diagnosed and we came to realize the extent of my disease, three different doctors suggested that mastectomy would be the best long-term option for me. In my mind, I was comforted by the thought that I’d “get new boobs.” It was a silver lining. I’ll get through cancer and at the end of it all, I’ll have perky new boobs as a consolation prize!
But that’s not true.
I’ve talked to quite a few women about their boobs. I’ve talked to women who have “gone flat” with no reconstruction and no plans for reconstruction. I’ve talked to women who began the reconstruction process at the same time as their mastectomies. I’ve talked to women who have waited and undergone reconstruction later. I’ve talked to women who wear prosthetics. I’ve talked to plastic surgeons. I’ve talked to my oncologist. I’ve talked to my surgeon.
Here’s what I’ve learned: my boobs will never be the same again. To be sure, there were a few women who were generally happy with how things turned out. But the overarching, familiar thread of conversation was that reconstruction created new difficulties. Some of these comments have lodged in my mind:
– My left boob is two inches higher than my right one and it’s as hard as a brick.
– My implant keeps shifting up under my armpit and I’m about to go in for my fourth breast surgery.
– I feel like I’m wearing a sports bra that is two sizes too small.
– If I have to have one more corrective surgery, I’m going to have my plastic surgeon take them off.
– It’s been over a year and sometimes when I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror, I catch my breath in shock all over again. It’s a long grieving process.
That last one was a friend sitting across from me at lunch. She is about a year ahead of me on the breast cancer recovery road. She told me that she was happy to get rid of her boobs: My boobs tried to kill me! But then she followed up with the comment about being caught by the sense of loss when sees her reflection in the mirror (even with her “new boobs” by the way).
I suppose it’s complicated. Grief is complicated. There will be hard moments. There will be tears and shock and mourning for a while. Eventually, I’ll cry less. Maybe I’ll even walk past a mirror in the bathroom and not notice my scarred, flat chest. And as time moves forward, the new normal will perhaps become easier to embrace.
In the spirit of total honesty: right now, I find that hard to believe.
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A few months ago, I asked my doctor what my chances of recurrence would be if I did a lumpectomy. There are a lot of factors here: my age, the grade of the cancer, the size of the cancer, how aggressive the cancer is, etc. He said that with the kind of cancer I have and my age (age is a big factor) he’d say 20-30% chance of recurrence. Then I asked him about rate of recurrence if I did a double mastectomy:
Less than two percent, he said.
No one can guarantee the future. Nobody can say that I have a zero percent chance of cancer coming back. But I want that percentage as close to zero as possible.
I was discussing all of this with a group of girlfriends recently. The mastectomy; my fear; my sense of loss; these percentages. Words like “rates of survival” and “long-term success” and “rates of recurrence” have become an unfortunate part of my vernacular. One of these ladies leaned over the edge of her chair, stared me in the eye, and said:
You’re trading your boobs for your life, Sarah. Make that trade.
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As we approach the Easter season, I can’t help but see a crude reflection: A Savior who wept and prayed and begged for another way. He was also looking down a short, dark tunnel of time and knew what was coming. And while much of his pain was about spiritual separation from the Father, I can’t help but notice that he also knew he was about to be physically maimed, wounded, and permanently scarred. His body was about to go through the wringer. And on top of that, he was truly alone.
At least I have the millions of women who have done this before me. I find comfort in them. I know that they understand these decisions, this specific grief, this particular pain. And I also have a band of people around me who lift me up and encourage me and love me as I walk this journey.
Jesus was abandoned by everyone who said they cared. He was alone. He was whipped, flogged, beaten, ridiculed, and crucified.
And this trauma and pain were for what? Well, it was for me. He was trading his life for mine. Remarkably, he found it to be a worthy trade.
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I’ve saved the good news for the last: my recent post-chemo chest MRI showed that there is no more cancer in my body! My cancerous nodes are gone; my cancerous fatty tissue is gone, and the entire tumor has melted away—it’s all gone.
Yes, I still have to have surgery (believe me: I asked!) and radiation. I don’t want to do it, but I’m going to trade my boobs for my life and call it a worthy trade.
My remarkable MRI scan boosts my spirits. This amazing, miraculous news buoys me to go through the next difficult phase. Sometimes when we have to face down the pain, it’s helpful to look behind us and remember what He’s already done.
Happy Lenten Season,
PS: I understand that each woman and her cancer situation is different. I’m not saying that the choices I’ve made are best practice. They aren’t. They are best for me right now, as I’m sure you understand.