For those of you who don’t follow my whinings updates on Facebook (if you’d like to keep up with the fun, sarcasm, and my blinding flashes of insight, you can find me here and here), I am currently recovering from two surgeries. On November 1, I had an adrenalectomy, and on December 20, I had a double mastectomy with reconstruction.
Needless to say, between pain, a strong affection for narcotics (no, I didn’t get addicted, but man oh man, I can sure see how that can happen…), a nasty infection, the inability to lift my arms above my head for a month+, and generally feeling like crap, I’ve accumulated a lot to tell you about.
First topic on my list? Adjusting to my new breasts.
Didn’t see that coming, didja?
Yep, I can guarantee you that I haven’t looked at my chest as thoroughly or as often in the past ~40+ years as I have in the past ~5 weeks. From inspecting incisions, to having my drains stripped (more about that lovely process and lessons learned on a different day), to treating a nasty infection, I’ve been checking out The Girls at least several times per day. Taking note of the most minute detail of scabbing, scarring, shape, and size: it’s been a most time-intensive investigation.
What I Didn’t Account For #1
A whole new avenue of embarrassing moments.
Part of recovery/therapy is to massage Them. (And if you knew how much my insurance company and I paid for them, your eyes would roll back in your head, and the minute you came to, you’d agree They warrant capitalization.) My particular type of reconstruction, because I wanted to do everything in one operation, involved Alloderm “matrix” and Mentor gel products. What this means, in a nutshell: I have several hunks of plastic and cadaver-based tissue hanging off my upper-front.
Maneuvering and massaging them and such is supposed to lend itself to a more natural look. So my plastic surgeon tells me.
Now, he hasn’t steered me wrong yet. In fact, Dr. Kind&Wonderful (my plastic surgeon) has been rather phenomenal, kindly putting up with my resistance to this entire process (such as gently telling me, “yes, Mrs. Lasko, I *know* you don’t want to consider anything as cosmetic as nipple tattooing, but I just want you to understand all your options”), dealing with my angst over the physical process (HUNKS OF PLASTIC. IN MY BODY!!!! FOR DECADES!!!) and gracefully ignoring my guilt of finally deciding to HAVE reconstruction (I hate vanity. Though I’m realizing I should take it a little more seriously. More to come in other posts). Not to mention being motivated by clinical evidence and a blinding fear of breast cancer, which kicked-off this whole adventure.
If ever there were a time to follow doctor’s orders, I’ve decided these past two surgeries were it. (To understand what a coup this is for Hubby and my mother, you should know that, in the past, I’ve been known to be somewhat resistant and non-compliant with medical orders…to flaunt my pre-med studies and self-proclaimed medical professional status – thank you, Google U – while not fully practicing prescribed self-care procedures.)
So there I am, standing in the bathroom, therapeutically massaging myself (an awkward process to begin with…), and I hear a small gasp. I turn toward the door to find two of my three girls watching me through the 2-inch crack in the door, standing there with their mouths open. [They rarely let me pee in peace – why did I think this would be different?]
While, in retrospect, it seems perfectly sensible that I could have said something like, “this is just part of Mama’s therapy to get better and heal,” I must confess: words completely failed me.
I stood there with my hands full of my chest, mid-squeeze, mirroring their shocked looks.
Score another one for the list of Reasons My Children Will Need Therapy. They think I’m pushing them to study and get good grades to build a work ethic or to look good among their peers… but no siree! I want them to go to college, maybe get an advanced degree or two – whatever it takes to make sure they have comprehensive health benefits that cover psychological counseling. Because I’ve ensured, time and again, with many inadvertent parenting actions like massaging my new Breasts without locking the bathroom door, that they’re sooooo going to need it.
What I Didn’t Account For #2
Let’s face it: size matters.
There’s just no getting around it. It’s just that… I didn’t think about that truism in relation to my own situation, my own physique.
So, when Dr. Kind&Wonderful asked me at the end of our first consultation what size I wanted to be, I about fell off the most comfortable doctor’s office guest chair I’ve ever sat in. I mean, REALLY: if there was a question in the world that I NEVER thought I’d be asked, that one would rank right up there with “Did you know you were going to deliver an alien baby?”
So I blurted out my current [very modest, though not invisible] bra size. Pretty sure I blushed a bit, maybe even stammered. You’d think, knowing I’d be talking to a plastic surgeon who’d be operating on my Ta-tas, that I would have been prepared for that question. But I wasn’t. I was too caught up in trying to make the right decisions about the mastectomy itself (should I? shouldn’t I? why? why not?), and wondering if being under anesthesia for 4+ hours after having just had a previous surgery would render me brain dead (how do you prepare for such a thing?? I mean, I barely get my taxes paid on time and laundered socks in my kids’ drawers weekly, and now I’m thinking about potentially not being there for each of my kids’ next birthdays for the rest of time???????)
My point is: I wasn’t prepared for the question. I should have been, but I wasn’t.
What I Didn’t Account For #3
Needing new bras.
Now, maybe you like shopping for panties and brassieres. I, on the other hand, with many other, ahem, full-figured women raising young children, could think of about 127 other things I’d rather do. Like go to Confession (I’m a lapsed Catholic, and even before I fell off the Catholic bandwagon I wasn’t real big on that particular sacrament). Or learn how to change the oil in my minivan. Both items are allegedly important maintenance details, but not compelling enough to make me want to lay on my garage floor or perch on a kneeler for any length of time!
You might wonder why on earth I’d need new bras when I requested that I be the same size. Frankly, I’ve been wondering that too. I even had Hubby check to see if *he* thought I was, uh, bigger. (I bet he never thought that feeling me up was going to count as “taking one for the team”!). [BTW, Hubby agrees with me. Then again, he’d be a fool NOT to, right?]
After much thought and analysis, here’s what I’ve come up with: gravity. Also known, when applied to the aging female body, as SAG. ( I was going to say “drag,” but I’m not really ready to go there quite yet. Literally or figuratively.)
And now??? Post-Boob-job? I’m the OPPOSITE of sag. I’m more perky than I was in my 20s! In fact, I’ll venture to guess that in 30 years, as I’m flirting with dementia in one of my kids’ basements (betcha $20 bucks that they’ll flip quarters or play Uno to see which one will have to “take me in”) that my jowls will hang unattractively from my face and my upper arms will look like there’s flesh-colored jello dripping off them, but MY CHEST… my wonderful part plastic-polymer, part cadaver-tissue product breasts, will be kissing the sun! Oh, you won’t be able to find my waist, but whoever has to sponge-bathe me or get me in and out of the tub is gonna shake their heads at my pert, perky, happy boobs that don’t match anything else on me.
So I need new bras. Didn’t expect that – the need or the expense. And I just cannot WAIT to see who has the colder changing rooms, Kohl’s or Penney’s. Because I’m NOT laying out $30+ only to get home and find out I need to go back and waste more time on foundation garments.
Hindsight
I’ve never thought a whole heck of a lot about my chest size. I mean… do you? (think about yours, that is?) Of course, we all know that bigger boobs = more attention, but I’ve never been an attention-seeking person [says the woman who lives her life out loud on her personal blog and publishes intimate details of every ache and pain on Facebook daily….]. I remember wondering about the size thing as a teen, but you get over that pretty quick when you realize that what will be, will be. There’s a reason they teach you the basics of genetics right around the time your body is undergoing puberty, right?
What with all these unexpected consequences, I’m left to wonder:
- What are the tax implications of converting an EdVest [college fund] account to a Health Savings Account for miscellaneous therapeutic expenses…????
- How might my life be better if I chose for my new Boobs a 42DD? Did I just miss the chance for a Dolly Parton life???
- Should I, for once, look at Victoria’s Secret’s lacy lingerie and truly consider making it my own Secret? And does all that lace breathe and/or ITCH????
Just when you think there’s nothing to add to your list of Life’s Biggest Questions, fate smacks you upside the head. Again.
Luckily, my head is as hard as my new Boobs are perky. So, despite all the unanticipated fallout, I’m going to be just fine. :)
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