Carol wasn’t about to stay inside and write this weekend while the weather was so perfect. By unpopular demand, she brings back a column written in 2009.
It was a sunny warm day in the “Happiest place on earth” when I first felt the stabbing pain. The eternally cheerful little people in my brain singing “It’s a world of laughter, a world of tears…” were replaced by silent screams. Searing through my right breast, the sensation of a plunged knife had me leaning over gasping for breath. It was excruciating.
OK, it’s not really a breast. It is a “gummy bear,” a silicon gel implant sitting on my ribs under layers of muscle and skin. It was inserted months after my mastectomy three years ago. But to me, it was a breast the second I woke up from surgery and saw a soft mound where months before it had been as flat as Kansas. I loved my little gummy bear. It did a fine breast imitation.
This instant acceptance of a foreign object in my body surprised me. After learning I had cancer, I spent weeks trying to decide whether or not to have an implant.
My idealist side thought it shouldn’t matter if I only had one breast. I should be loved and accepted and desired for who I am. This view was supported by several friends.
The “Gee, I want to be sexy,” part of me thought an implant would be a nice thing to have to fill out my sweaters. It would make me the most normal. An equal number of friends supported this view.
Finally, I decided I’d go for it.
An expander was placed under the chest muscle immediately following the mastectomy. This fancy sandwich bag would be injected with saline during office visits over the next month or so. Muscle and skin stretched and then, Ta-da! The stage was set for Gummy Bear to make its appearance.
During surgery, the expander was removed and Gummy Bear snuggled into its little cave. I went home delighted with my new addition. Unfortunately, I was not the only one attached to my new friend. An evil, viscous infection attacked the area. So began the battle of “Mount Perky.” Battle lines were drawn along the edges of the healthy white skin and the spreading armies of the inflamed, infected, red skin.
Drastic measures were taken to save the Gummy Bear. I endured weeks of daily in-home IVs and three-hour hyperbaric chamber sessions. Finally, the red army was pushed back and Mount Perky was saved. Yay.
But the battle left its toll. Because of the damage to the skin, I would not have surgery to create a nipple. My breast would have to spend the rest of its days looking like it had football stitching across the top. Hey, I figured this could possibly be a positive thing when dealing with the opposite gender.
So, for two years I was happy with my implant. I hated to admit it, but still having cleavage was grand. It reminded me of my younger years when I was pleased when a guy checked out my chest. I was as giddy as a teenager with her first bra.
My giddiness came to an abrupt end as I left “It’s a Small World” last month. The aches and pains I had been dismissing would no longer be ignored. Leaning over trying to discreetly massage the muscle over the lump on my chest, I made up my mind. No fake breast, even a loveable Gummy Bear, was worth that kind of pain.
In a few weeks the implant will be removed, never to be replaced. The skin damaged by radiation and infection simply won’t support one. My remaining breast will be reduced to offer a bit of symmetry.
It is time to say a final farewell to what was my best feature. They were perfect boobs, breasts, hooters, whatever. Not too big, not too small, just right. They filled my bathing suits and filled lovers with desire. Most importantly, they filled themselves with milk to feed my two sons, one of the most miraculous and meaningful experiences I’ve ever known.
Like great heros, they gave all they had for my kids and they paid for it. After years of breast feeding, I could hide a can of tuna under each breast. But I still loved them.
It will be sad saying a final farewell to my dear friends. I know I can wear prosthesis if I’d like. There are some terrific ones out there. But it won’t be the same. Strangers may think they are real, but friends will know they are fake…and so will I.
I’m trying to look on the bright side. I will be able to sleep on my stomach again. Perhaps I’ll even go braless (gasp ) and give my poor shoulders a much needed rest.
After spending most of my life wondering if the other gender is checking out my figure, it just may be a relief to spend my time and energy on meaningful, soul-enriching activities. The list of possibilities is endless.
This thought is not excruciating, it’s exhilarating.
