Validation

My oncologist, Dr. Villa, has always been one who shoots straight from the hip. She was clear on that very first day in her office that I would need a mastectomy. Ultimately she would lobby for a single, calling my urge for a double mastectomy "an emotional response" and medically unnecessary until we knew the results of my genetic testing.

All emotions aside, I knew I wanted a double mastectomy for several reasons. There was an emotional component in that I never wanted to experience that phone call - "It's breast cancer." - again. Removing all of the traitorous breast tissue in my body seemed the most expedient means toward that end. But there were other reasons equally as weighted.

The Girls had always been very large. "Huge tracts of land", is how Daddy-O and his English mates referred to their like. Don't you love how the English turn a phrase? I couldn't imagine spending the rest of my life so unbalanced. I imagined a two-humped camel with one hump missing, traveling through life disfigured with either a hump on it's shoulders only or worse, a flat back and a hump on it's rear-end. Then there were the physical consequences of being so lopsided: back problems.

Yes, I was absolutely, firmly for a double mastectomy. Yet, I had a single. Yes, I buckled. I am a sucker for the rational and practical. Calling my decision an "emotional response" caused a knee-jerk fear of potential regret. So I didn't ring the bell that couldn't be un-rung. Yet. But I did later when the genetic test came back positive for the BRCA2 mutation. With my gut instinct vindicated I had them lop off the rest of the potentially mutinous breast tissue with reconstruction.

Word to the Wise: Trust yourself. Know yourself. If you want a double mastectomy and you are being persuaded otherwise, follow your heart. It is your body. You, and only you, must live in it.

That was another consideration in my decision... reconstruction. Oh how inviting the thought of buying bras in normal sizes and cute colors. The wardrobe potential alone was enough to start me daydreaming... Not to mention the budgetary boon of eliminating chronic chiropractic care. SOLD. The girls and I were downsizing!

Once my reconstruction options were laid out for me, DIEP Flap or nothing (watch this cool 3D version), I had second thoughts. The surgery was anything but simple. The prospect of not lifting my baby for 3 months was daunting. My family and friends were completely against the surgery. The scars are giant, the recovery long and the surgery intense. The surgeon was also out of network for my insurance company so I would have to pay his $10K fee on my own. I was also anxious to return to work and get my life back to normal. No small issues, these.

Daddy-O and I discussed reconstruction at length. He was very supportive but not much help. It didn't matter to him, he said. He'd love me the same either way. Just what I needed to hear but still no help for making the decision. Ultimately I had to examine my own feelings on the matter.

After many, many hours of introspection I came to one simple conclusion. I was only 40 years old. I hoped to have many, many years left in my life. Years in which I intended to feel sexy and sensual. Emotionally I wasn't sure I would feel that way breastless. I certainly didn't in my current state of disproportion. In general, not having reconstruction felt like I would be giving up, acknowledging that cancer would ultimately win. I felt that rebuilding my body was tantamount to rebuilding my life. A physical manifestation of the hope and faith in my ability to survive. In short, planning for the future.

So I did it. And I have never regretted it once. Not during the long weeks of recuperation. Not when I couldn't lift my baby. Not when I saw the giant nasty scars. Not once. Not ever.

I thought maybe I was the only one who felt like that. But according to this article I read this morning, women who have reconstruction experience lasting psychological benefits.

Validation. At last.

This has been cross posted at Mothers With Cancer.

Filling a need

You all know my friend Susan from Toddler Planet. Of course you do. Most of you found your way here from there. Well, a lot of moms funnel through her blog. Moms with cancer. There are so many moms out there with cancer... moms that are looking for guidance in their journey through chemo and beyond. And there's really no place for them on the internet. Most support groups are full of women in their upper 50's +. They are grandmothers. They aren't trying to juggle play dates, housework and radiation. Susan had a wonderful idea and she was kind enough to bring me in at the lowest level. She wants to make a place for Mothers With Cancer to gather and share information and support; a place to gain courage and companionship; a place I wish I'd had when I was going through treatment. I'm all in.

We're going to start a blog called, appropriately, Mothers With Cancer. We have many, many women bloggers who have agreed to be authors. You probably know many if not all of them. There's Andrea from Punk Rock Mommy, Judy of JustEnjoyHim, Sarah from Sprucehill, the wonderful artist Mary Beth Volpini, RivkA from Coffee and Chemo, and Amanda from AlabamaPink. There are some others that I haven't heard from yet.

I'm very excited about this project. Keep watching. We hope to launch in a week or so.

Belly Button Blues

Before I get to my point here, I want to direct you all to a newcomer to the blogosphere. ClergyGirl has been recently diagnosed with Inflammatory Breast Cancer. She is currently going through chemo and could use lots of support and prayers. Why don't you drop in and welcome her.

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Some time ago Killer Boob opened the subject of reconstruction scars. She admitted to being underwhelmed by her new navel. Make that two of us. Soooooo underwhelmed.

Isn't it odd that with the huge, patchwork of scars criss-crossing my torso it's the small round one right in the middle that bothers me the most? But, just like Sarah, I was quite fond of my old belly button. It wasn't an inny. It wasn't an outy. It was quite neutral - like Switzlerland. Also, open so as not to collect odd bits of sheet lint.

Now, however, it bears no resemblance to it's former self. It is still neither an inny nor an outy. Nor does it collect any bits of fuzz. But there the similarities end. This new belly button is quite flat. And it has a thick scar all the way around it. It. is. ugly.

Since the day I brought it home from the hospital I've sworn to cover it with a tattoo. I've haphazardly looked for a palatable flower whose nicely placed center would mask this navel's ugliness. I've just not found one to my liking.

The more I stare at my reconstructed and relocated belly button the more it reminds me of something. I don't think I'm imagining it. I would like your opinion.

Here is my belly button.

Isn't it hideous?

And doesn't it look suspiciously like one of these?

Sweet slumber

There was the most adorable baby black bear. I was keeping him in our bathroom so he wouldn't tear apart the cabin. He was tiny, about the size of a 2 month old golden retriever puppy. Pure, roly-poly, frolicking fun. B was there (for a short time, anyway, just to ogle to bear cub). Daddy-O was not in attendance. I don't think he existed yet.

Mama C and I were in some strange dream melding of my childhood haunts and Low's old stomping grounds. I found myself disenchanted with some significant other and (as there was a bear cub in my bathroom) making use of the neighboring cabin's shower. For one dream-reason or another I was showering in a fairly open shower with a white t-shirt on (purely for dramatic effect, I'm sure) while talking with the neighbor guys who just happened to be - Steven Webber and Matthew Perry from Studio 60. They were brothers and quite sympathetic. I happened to glance down at myself while in the shower (when I opened the curtain and Steven Webber gaped at me) to see that my girls were gorgeous. The were highschool boobies complete with nipples. Oh, I haven't had nipples in so long. I miss my nipples. I also miss that hungry look from the opposite sex.

Zap! Now we are slowly rafting down a creek, Mama C and I, talking of the old days (which we never shared so that was kind of weird). I whipped off my bikini top laying face down floating in the sun, soaking up the rays. Oh, I'd forgotten how lazy and g-o-o-d that feels. We're talking of people from before and after this mystery point in time as if the whole concept of a timeline was nonexistant - as if all the people in my life co-existed in the same space and time. I came upon a deck and town, disembarked, topless and without self-consciousness. I dressed. I spoke to my old friends and current friends. I was physically whole. It was shocking to realize. So shocking that I woke up and saw that I had over slept.

It's the first dream I've had in the 15 months since my first mastectomy about my breasts. Hard to believe. I've not had one dream about them. Not a bad dream. Not a good dream. None. Last night we pulled out some old pictures to look at with my brother in law. I'm sure that seeded the dream. But it was a nice sweet warm dream while it lasted.

See my boo boo

Folks, liposuction is brutal!!! I can't believe people volunteer - no, pay copious amounts of money, for this. Although, it really doesn't hurt like it looks like it should.

So, in case you haven't guessed, my surgery is over and I'm bruised but feeling fine. I'm pleased as punch with the new "girls". They don't have nips yet but I can wait. At least they're the same size now. Woo hoo! M hasn't seen them yet. I think he'll be impressed.

Can I just say - if anyone out there in cyberspace is considering implants - GO WITH SILICONE!!! Holy mole do they feel natural. The saline ones are pretty hard. Imagine a water balloon versus a boob-shaped stress ball. So lovin' the natural feel.



While I was off at UCLA letting Dr. F have magic marker fun on my torso here's what the boys were doing... Just look at my little Brown Berries. Don't they look like they've been sunnin' and funnin' all summer long? And here it is only mid-June.






And here's my favorite little blind boy. Just look at the way he handles his stick! Admit it... you love him too.

Of Heaven and Hell

"Mothers are fonder than fathers of their children because they are more certain they are their own." --Aristotle

One week from today I will be traveling to UCLA for my almost final breast reconstruction surgery. Almost final because I won't be coming home with nipples. But I should be coming home otherwise completely reconstructed with one bright, perky silicone boob and one modified belly-boob with a lift. Ooh! And I get a second mini tummy tuck for my trouble! Somehow (blame chemo brain) I didn't realize I'd be completely cut up and catywompus again for a couple of weeks post surgery. In my defense, I was told the surgery would be "easy" and I'd only need to take the week off work. The implication was definately that I would probably, no doubt, maybe be able to care for my kids, return to work and perhaps scale a small peak within 4-7 days. The reality, according to my pre-op paperwork, is somewhat different.

No lifting more than 10 pounds for 2 weeks. No driving for 2 weeks. No driving? WTF? Plus, instead of just removing my expander and installing (is that the proper term) my silicone implant... and liposuctioning my belly-boob and puppydog ears on my tummy... they are basically re-doing the whole kit and kaboodle. They are going to re-open all original incisions. They are taking an extra inch off my tummy & giving me a nice clean scar. Dr. F will have his magical way with my now ugly belly button. Plus the whole belly-boob resizing thing. And... I have 3 and 10-day post op appointments. Which I can't drive myself to because I can't drive for 14 days. Am I the only one who thinks these little tidbits of information might have been pertinent when the surgery was being scheduled??? So, the long and the short of it is that Nana will be coming to stay next week to drive me to Los Angeles. This is convenient since she'll also be taking B to her house for a month once school is out.

One month without B. The very thought makes my head spin with possibilities. How awesome to only have one child in the house! No sibling rivalry. No personal space issues to cause yelling and screaming and crying - oh, and the kids don't like it either. No trying to plan menus that somehow incorporate protein in the shape of dinosaurs or peanuts. Copious parental sleeping-in. We will wake in the morning to birds, bunny rabbits and small deer on our lawn peering at us with gratitude that the small would-be hunter has left the land. The house can be purged of all vagrant rocks, sticks and peices of potentially useful (to a 6 year old) articles of trash. Sigh... sounds like Heaven.

But...

I am going to miss my little boy. I'm going to miss our quiet time in the morning when he squeezes his long, coltish legs and bottom onto my lap in the recliner and holds my little finger while we watch cartoons together. I'm going to miss our games of mancala and the look of naughty joy on his face when he takes my stones. Mostly, I'm going to miss the pure boyness of him. I will miss tho stories he tells me at the end of the day... about the dead fish in the bush he has made into a fort (there was worms in it, you know - eew!), about the tree he climbed so high in that he could see the ocean and Dad was waving to him from his surfboard, about the bad guys that chased he & the neighbor boy thru the jungle but they got away by riding on their elephants and hiding in their fort. I'm going to miss his smile when he waves goodbye to me in the morning. I'm going to miss the soft sound of his breathing as he drifts off to sleep at night.

Perhaps, the surgery will be the easy part.