Something you may not know about me--the day after my first wedding anniversary, I found out I had breast cancer. Not exactly the gift I was hoping for on that first 'paper or plastic' anniversary. (Season tickets to the theater or a gift certificate to Barnes and Noble in the three-digit range were more what I had in mind.)
Although we were still relative newlyweds, I wasn't worried that my husband would love me any less without a breast due to the unconditional love and acceptance he'd already shown me in our dating days when I revealed that my B.C. (before Christ) past was more R-rated than G. In fact, when my beloved first saw my mastectomy scar, he kissed it tenderly and said, "I love this scar because it means I'm going to have you with me for a long time." (And yes, I'm keeping him :)
I too was grateful for the scar because my life was more important to me than my breast. Let's face it. It's not like it's one of the more useful body parts anyway. Its only real 'function' is for nursing babies, and for that there's this marvelous invention called a bottle. (And as it turns out, the only child we wound up having was our canine daughter Gracie, so that wasn't even an issue.)
Once you're diagnosed, there's a lot of treatment decisions to be made: Lumpectomy or mastectomy? Reconstructive surgery or not? Chemotherapy? The latter decision was pretty much made for me once it was discovered that the cancer had already spread to my lymph nodes--although I still had the option to say no. But why would I? Chemo was my best shot at killing the cancer and preventing it from spreading any farther. And apart from the cancer, I was relatively young and healthy, so figured my body could handle it. (And it did, although it also took quite a beating in the process--thanks to my not getting the necessary anti-nausea medications when I was supposed to. But that's another story and one I detail in my book Thanks for the Mammogram!)
What I want to talk about here is reconstruction and plastic surgery. And yes, boob jobs. (Ok to say that, Mary and Rachel? :)
Initially, I didn't intend to have one. It's not like I ever had a lot in that department anyway, so why bother? And it wasn't as if I made my living with my looks like the women in Hollywood, so what was the point? My husband was fine with whatever I decided to do. He hadn't married me for my breasts--good thing, or he'd have been shortchanged. He married me for my sense of humor, my independence, and my ability to beat him at Silver Screen Trivial Pursuit. And of course, the fact that God had brought us together and orchestrated our union. (Thank you, Lord, for those "For better or worse, in sickness and in health..." vows.)
So I was actually leaning against the whole reconstruction thing (or the build-a-breast process, as we called it.) And then, my mother, who'd also had breast cancer (and two mastectomies within a couple years) told me that if she'd been younger and her insurance had covered it (it didn't at the time) she'd have chosen reconstructive surgery, because without it, every day when she gets dressed, it's a daily reminder of the cancer.
That clinched it.
I didn't want a daily reminder. I wanted to beat this cancer and leave it behind me and move on with my life--my happily-ever-after with the man I'd been waiting for forever. So I chose reconstructive surgery and a saline implant. And for more than thirteen years, that saline implant served me well. (Other than occasional twinges of discomfort and sometimes pain--usually as I gained or lost weight.)
And then a few weeks ago when Michael and I were putting away all our Christmas stuff (I hear ya on that crowded attic, Diann!) I was lifting a heavy box up to him as he stood on the ladder and. . . the implant ruptured. (Not to worry, I didn't feel a thing.) In fact, I didn't even know it had happened until I was getting ready to take a bath that night and happened to catch sight of myself in the mirror.
Whoa. Can you say flat tire?
It was a bit disconcerting, but mostly I was concerned that it might do some kind of damage internally, so I called my doctor the next morning. Apparently there's no danger since it's just saline which is absorbed into the blood stream. However, I still have this deflated balloon in my chest that needs to be surgically removed, and replaced with a new implant, if I want. So next week I finally visit the plastic surgeon--for the initial consultation, not even surgery. (Clearly it's not an emergency.) And the day after seeing the plastic surgeon, I have my annual check-up with my oncologist.
I'm going to doublecheck with him, but I've pretty much decided already that I don't want a new boob job. That would require additional surgery and recuperation. Plus, what's to prevent the new implant from not rupturing sometime in the future? They don't last forever. And I don't want to keep going in and out of surgery for a cosmetic procedure.
Besides, there's this amazing invention called a prosthesis that looks and feels remarkably like a real breast that slips inside a bra and will give me the even look I need when going out in public. (Don't want to scare people with my hunchbreast of Notre Dame impression.) But you can bet your booby I won't be wearing it at home. These days, comfort is more important than looks.
And bottom line? Breasts--real or otherwise--do not make a woman. I'm grateful that God gave me a man who understands that. And that I'm still here to be able to celebrate our 15th anniversary this summer.
Laura Jensen Walker is the author of Dreaming in Black & White and Dreaming in Technicolor. A survivor of breast cancer, church singles groups, and more bad blind dates than she can recall, she’s now wife to a Renaissance-man, mother to a piano-playing canine ‘daughter’, book lover, movie lover, and rabid Anglophile. A speaker and author of several non-fiction humor books including Thanks for the Mammogram!, her next novel, Reconstructing Natalie, about a young single woman with breast cancer, will be released by WestBow Press in August 2006.
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