Asymmetry, Grief and Love

When I look at my naked body in the mirror, I cry.

For days, I’ve been trying to write this post, but I can’t seem to get past that first line. Where do I start? How do I attempt to unravel the layers of emotion that have formed over these past couple of weeks since my second surgery?

Let me start with some facts: The surgery successfully addressed what turned out to be a seroma, not a hematoma. (As far as I understand, the main difference between the two is that a seroma is essentially a collection of clear fluid whereas a hematoma involves blood. Both can apparently lead to Dolly Parton sized breasts.)

Recovery was, as expected, quicker and easier with this surgery than with my mastectomy. I was up and about after the first week. Unfortunately, because of the seroma, I needed a drain. If you’ve never had a drain, trust me, you don’t want one. I forgot to take a picture of my own drain, so I scrolled the internet to give those who’ve never seen one an image of what I walked around with for the last couple of weeks (and for three weeks after my first surgery).

drainMy drain was attached to my bra with a safety pin not this nifty looking eyelet. The long tube that disappears under the bra is inserted into the skin. Then, every day, I (and by “I” I mean Josh, because he usually did it) got to empty and measure the fluid like this (though my fluid was less blood red and more serus):

empty drain

Today was a good day because, after two weeks, I finally got the damn thing out, which means I no longer have to walk around with a plastic tube and container attached to my body, collecting fluid from my wound. Bulky and gross and a great way to feel like a sick person.

As for what else I hoped to accomplish with this unexpected surgery—symmetry and a regained level of comfort in my body—that did not come to fruition. My reconstructed breast (and nipple) is now noticeably smaller than my healthy breast. That, coupled with the physical scars, makes me… well, it makes me cry. I feel ravaged, ugly, older than my years (the post-chemo gray hair isn’t helping); and every time I look in the mirror, I am reminded of what I’ve lost and what I’ve been through and what lurks on the horizon as my new, biggest fear (recurrence, metastasis, telling my children I have a cancer again, missing out on all the things I don’t want to miss in their lives).

But here is the amazing thing: Despite all this— the disappointment, the self-consciousness, the crying, the fear—I generally feel happy.

Growing up, when I was having a hard time about something, my mom would say, “Go somewhere else on the canvas.” Meaning life is like a giant canvas, with, say, one group of friends in one little corner, an aspect of work in another, a particular family member somewhere else, an aching back up top, cancer down below; and that whatever the pieces of our lives might be, there are, for most of us, many of them. When one piece of the canvas bogs us down, it doesn’t mean the entire canvas has to go down with it; we can move our attention elsewhere. For the most part, this is easier said then done for me, but by some miracle, the grief I feel these days in my moments of crying is confined to those moments of crying.

canvas

This morning, I crawled into bed after my follow-up with my surgeon and had another tear-fest. I cried for all the reasons I’ve shared, and because I now need to decide whether I’m going to have yet another surgery, purely elective this time, to achieve some symmetry. There is no rush to this decision, but it weighs on me with the same guilt and shame that weighed on me when I had to decide about reconstruction. I feel ashamed by the thought of choosing a surgery I don’t need to “fix” something I don’t like about my body. Why stop with my reconstructed breast? Why not suck some of the fat out of the saddlebags I’ve always wished away? Why not erase the bags under my eyes? Tighten up my knees, which I’ve always found a bit saggy? Certainly these are choices that many people make, but they are not choices I ever thought I would make. Yet here I am considering what feels like a similar kind of choice, and it weighs on me. I would never, ever begrudge another woman for choosing reconstruction after enduring the traumatic loss of a breast, but I am struggling to find that same compassion and understanding for myself.

Time to go somewhere else on the canvas. I think I’ll linger for awhile in the fact that I am more in love with Josh than ever before, and that to feel that way after 15 years is incredible. Josh, who lies down with me in the middle of the day and tells me, while I cry, that he wants me to feel whatever I’m feeling, but then to remind myself that we will get through this, one foot in front of the next, just like we’ve gotten through everything else. Josh who sings to me, “You are beautiful, in every single way;” and who, after this latest surgery, wouldn’t let me off the couch for days after I felt like I could once again help with the kids and the house; and who is patiently waiting for me to watch Big Love and then read side-by-side in bed like the wonderfully old married couple we are.

heart love

“What do your breasts look like now, Mama?”

Snuggling with my 7-year-old daughter after reading her a bedtime story, she asks, “Mama, what does your breast look like?”

Suddenly I remember: I thought I saw her watching me on the beach when, back turned, I changed out of my wet suit. “Are you asking because you saw me without my shirt today?”

Nod.

“You can look if you want.”

She lifts the top of my shirt enough to peer at what’s beneath it.

She wants to know how they made my new breast.

I hesitate long enough to gather my response. This is why, when neither of my children asked questions before my surgery, I didn’t share any details about what was going to happen–because how do I explain a mastectomy to a 7 and 9 year old without it sounding terrifying? Of course I don’t want to say anything about cutting off a breast. Scooping out the insides doesn’t sound much better, but I can’t think of how else to answer Sophie’s question. “Well,” I manage. “They took out the stuff inside my skin and then put something else in there to make it look like a breast.”

“Oh, I get it. This one without a nipple is up and a little hard,” she explains, gently patting my new, left breast, “and this one is mushy and down.”

I smile at her language and her matter-of-factness. Smile because she’s described my breasts perfectly and without a trace of self-consciousness, the way only a child would do; and because she seems so okay about it all, no big deal. Relief. I’ve been anxious about this moment–about my kids seeing me post-surgery.

But I am also flooded by the old guilt and doubt that plagued me all those months during chemo when I was struggling to decide about reconstruction. Have I failed my daughter by deciding in the end to go through with it? Taught her that a woman isn’t a woman without breasts? I remind myself of all the other ways I’ve failed her, then–by wearing make-up and studying myself in mirrors and buying clothes I don’t need–and somehow that comforts me; rather than feeling badly about the make-up and mirrors, I remember that the fate of the whole world and of women’s rights and of my daughter’s self-confidence and of my son’s respect for women and girls does not rest on whether or not I chose to reconstruct my breast.

Still, I tell Sophie that I had to decide whether or not I wanted a new breast and that for a long time I thought no, but then I changed my mind. I want her to know it wasn’t a given, getting a new breast. “Lots of women choose not to,” I explain.

“What do they look like?” she wants to know. Such good questions.

“Their chests are flat, maybe even a little concave, which means it goes in like a dent where the breasts used to be.”

She’s on to the next question: “How come you changed your mind?”

I’m thinking about the fate of the whole world again, and I want to choose my words honestly but carefully. “Well, I thought I might feel more comfortable with two breasts, and after everything I went through, I wanted to feel comfortable in the end.” The truth is, I’m not comfortable now, with two very different breasts, but I don’t tell here that. I do, however, tell her that at some point, after I’m all healed from radiation, I might make them look more even. Do I tell her because I’m preparing her, while the opportunity has presented itself, for more upcoming changes with my body; or because I’m embarrassed by my body, even with my 7-year-old daughter, and want to assure her that I won’t always look like this?

Again she wants to know how–how will they make my breasts look more even?

“They’ll put something small inside this breast,” I say, resting my hand on the healthy one.
image

I try to answer each of Sophie’s questions with enough detail to satisfy her curiosity but not too much detail for her 7-year-old self to digest. I am grateful for the conversation–grateful that she feels comfortable enough to ask these questions; grateful that she seems utterly okay with the answers and with my new body; grateful for the quiet openness between my daughter and me.

Crashing in the Wave

I stumble over my answer to the question, “How are you?” because I don’t really know what’s going on with me these days. Except that I’m not fabulous. Some hours I’m not even sure if I’m okay. But then I think maybe I am, after all. (In other words, there are all kinds of confusion, not to mention all kinds of emotion, swirling around on my insides.) How can someone (me) who analyzes and reflects upon and over-thinks just about everything not even know how I feel?

Last night, I told Josh, “I feel separate from everything.” Not in a woe-is-me, no-one-understands kind of way. In an I-feel-like-I’m-in-a-haze kind of way, and I can’t even access myself, much less fully engage with the world or people around me. At times, I feel like a wax figure, fake-experiencing my day.

Except mostly it’s not so neutral-numb-feeling, because I also feel like my whole body is a grasping fist. (I am trying, oh how I am trying to let go, to let that wind carry me, but I feel like I am in an almost constant state of contraction.) Every – little – thing – overwhelms me. How is it that prior to my breast cancer diagnosis, I was working close to full time, more or less single-parenting two kids while my husband put in his 80-100 hours/week of grad school, engaging in a busy social life, making home-cooked meals and paying bills and cleaning my house and returning phone calls… and now, I can barely get my kids a cup of water without feeling like there is too much on my plate? That’s a bit of an exaggeration, but only a bit. I’m not working and my husband is home for the summer, so my main commitment is co- (not single) parenting and getting to doctor appointments, and yet (here it is again): every little thing overwhelms me.

HeadOnDesk But here’s the other thing that scares me: I’m not keeping up. I’m used to overwhelm, but I’m also used to that overwhelm making me highly productive. Thanks to my Type-A personality and fairly constant free-floating anxiety, I’ve gotten a lot done in life (successful career, happy kids, hand-made gifts, clutter-free home). So the fact that it takes me days to listen to my voicemails (I’m so sorry) and that the other day someone emailed my mom looking for my new address because I hadn’t gotten back to her (nope, no new address here) and that I haven’t read the newspaper in weeks (just keep looking over my shoulder as I slide it into the recycling bin, hoping no one will catch me being terribly uninformed while also unnecessarily destroying trees)—well, it’s disconcerting.

For decades, I have longed to be less Type-A because I have longed to be less anxious, more laid back, more able to, say, sit still rather than being in constant-doing-motion. When I was in chemotherapy and as still as I’ve ever been in life, I had one of those “cancer changes you” commitments to once and for all live a slower, simpler, calmer life. I say this because, if dumping my unread paper in the recycling bin and letting people wait before getting an email response was making me more relaxed, I’d rejoice. But the fact is, now I am anxious and unproductive… which only makes me more anxious. (Not to mention bummed out that my cancer-commitment to change my life isn’t working out so well these days.)

And just about everything gives me yet more reason to feel anxious. Like finding this blog that I absolutely love: Invasive Duct Tales. I literally (yes, literally, not figuratively) feel like I am reading my own writing at times. Which sounds egotistical, that I love it because I love my own writing; but I love it because I feel like I’ve found someone on the internet to whom I can relate—someone who makes me think, “Me too!” And of course there is comfort in that. But reading it yesterday, I suddenly felt the opposite of that expansive-love-feeling; I felt that contracted-anxious feeling, because she’s a successful blogger with awards and gazillions of followers and cancer-has-opened-unexpected-doors opportunity and me, all I am is a wax-figure lump surrounded by unopened mail. (You really should check out her blog, though. In fact, I thought about simply including a link to her most recent post in lieu of composing my own since I felt like 92.4% of what she wrote could have been describing me, including the fact that her husband is named Josh—that, and how she describes her mood, and her reference to “riding the wave” which is how I’ve described my cancer experience and hence titled my own blog, really did make me wonder for a second whether I had somehow gotten confused and truly was reading my own writing.)

Writing this post has me thinking a few new things:

  • I sound like I am describing a depressed person, which is eye-opening, since I’ve really felt like I wasn’t depressed anymore; but maybe I have a touch of it after all.
  • Does this post really have to do with breast cancer, and isn’t that what I’m supposed to be writing about here: riding (writing) that wave? Have I derailed? And either way, aren’t people sick of hearing about my emotional state? I can add that to my list of anxieties. I’m (sort of) joking.
  • I actually think my current state has everything to do with breast cancer. With my hormone treatment. (I’m going to keep blaming it on that, okay? It makes me feel less pathetic, less like it’s my fault that my family has to put up with irritable, unpredictable me.) With the fact that I don’t feel comfortable in my body anymore and even wonder whether reconstruction was a mistake. (I’ll save that for another time because I can’t handle opening that door any wider right now.) With my fear that the cancer will come back. With the fact that I look at my daughter and wonder, “Will she have to go through this some day?” With the fact that my body feels tired and old and broken down by months of treatment and even though everyone keeps saying I’ll get my stamina and strength back—that, for example, I’ll be able to run faster than an 11-minute mile or more than 3 miles in a row again—I’m really not so sure.
  • It’s time to get back to my gratitude practice.

Pathology Report, Birthdays, Doctors I Adore, and Breast Cancer Be Damned

I realize that a couple of posts ago I wrote about needing radiation without explaining why, which I will attempt to do now. The good news is that the results of my post-surgery pathology report are positive (or so I understand—after getting a medical run-down of the report, I did need to ask, “So, is that good news or bad?”).

As far as the doctors know, they removed whatever cancer remained—and what remained was much smaller than what the MRI showed pre-chemo, meaning I responded well to the chemo. They got “good margins,” meaning there was a good buffer of cancer-free tissue surrounding the extracted, cancerous tissue, reducing concerns about any lingering cancer cells being left behind. There was no cancer in my lymph nodes. There was, however, scarring in one of my lymph nodes, which is a sign that there might have been cancer there before the chemo eradicated it. Which is both good news and bad: good, of course, that the cancer has been eradicated; bad because knowing it might have been in one of my lymph nodes was the tipping point for needing radiation. (Though my understanding now—which was not my understanding in October when Josh and I first met with the radiation oncologist—is that radiation likely would have been recommended regardless, because of how young I am and how wide-spread the cancer was throughout my left breast.) The radiation is meant to kill any free-floating cancer cells that might remain.

What else is going on this week? Pretty much I alternate between tears and rage; bed and couch (or a doctor’s office).

My baby girl (who isn’t a baby anymore) turns 7 on Saturday, and I always make a big deal out of birthdays. But this year, it looks like I won’t be able to pull off very much. On Tuesday night, I was slammed with pain like I hadn’t felt since the hours just after my surgery. As careful as I thought I was being, apparently I overdid it. So I’m back on more or less total bed rest. I must have slept for 20 hours yesterday, all doped up again on pain meds. I’m feeling better physically today but terrified about doing too much and hence 1) postponing my healing even more and 2) missing out altogether on Sophie’s birthday celebrations.

I can’t say that the increased pain, bed rest and narcotics have done much to improve my emotional state.

I saw my oncologist, Dr. Katz, on Tuesday, who is starting me on my 10 years of Tamoxfin. Maybe it won’t be a big deal at all. Or maybe it’ll give me massive mood swings and hot flashes to top off all the other joys of the last seven months.

When I asked about our next appointment, she said she’d see me again in about 3 months. “Three months?!” I exclaimed, with great disappointment. (I would rather 3 weeks. Or 3 days.) I really like Dr. Katz. She is smart and direct and patient and kind and makes me feel like I am not only in the best of hands, but that I am a real-life human being about whom she genuinely cares. I actually look forward to seeing her, which is a big deal, because I can’t think of when else I’ve looked forward to going to the doctor.

Though I might be looking forward to seeing Dr. Parikh, my plastic surgeon, tomorrow. (I say “might” only because I’m pretty sure he’s going to tell me he can’t take out my surgical drain yet, which brings me back to the tears, rage, couch and bed.) I like him as much as I like Dr. Katz: a lot. The first time I met him, he blew apart all my stereotypes about plastic surgeons. He, too, is kind and patient and humane on top of very smart and very good at his job. What ultimately put me at ease about my surgery was knowing he would be in the room with me. (Which is to say nothing at all negative about the surgeon who performed my mastectomy. He, too, struck me as surprisingly kind and gentle for a surgeon—there I am exposing my stereotypes again—and he apparently did an excellent job. I would recommend him (Dr. Arenas) in a heartbeat. But I only met him once, briefly, whereas I met with, emailed with, even ran into Dr. Parikh often; which is why his presence, like Dr. Katz’s, feels like a safe place for me to land these days.)

ImageMy bed is a safe place to land, as well, but I sure am getting sick of it. Why this didn’t happen during chemo, I don’t know. Why I traveled through the first 6 months of treatment feeling more or less okay (and sometimes even strangely wonderful) emotionally, and am now hitting a wall, hard, I don’t know. But that I am: hitting a wall, hard. I am sick of the inside of my house. Sick of being so unavailable to my kids. Sick of feeling crappy. Sick, sick, sick of breast cancer. (Thanks, Greg, for the “screw cancer” poster.)

On the Mend…. Just in Time for Round 3

The night we got back from the Grand Canyon, I was covered in red dust, and I attempted to wash the dirt gathered above my eyes, only to discover that it was not Imagedirt but my eyebrows returning. My eyebrows were finally growing back! Two weeks later, there is no confusing them for dirt. I also have eyelashes again, along with hair on my other various body parts (some of which I would happily do without). The hair on top of my head has been growing for a couple of months so that I assume people not in-the-know no longer see me as a cancer patient. Instead, I am simply an aging woman with a full head of gray.

It’s been weeks since my son has cringed when I go hatless.

And more recently, he and Sophie both have stopped carefully, tenderly, wonderfully making certain that they don’t accidentally sip out of my glass or use my towel for fear of exposing my chemo-suppressed immune system to their germs.

In other words, so much is changing. I am on the mend.

But here’s the thing. A few days after my surgery, when I asked Harrison how he was doing about my breast cancer and whether he wanted to talk about anything, he said, “I feel pretty good. I mean, it’s almost over!” And at the time, I thought, “It’s almost over, my children aren’t worried anymore!”

But it turns out it isn’t almost over.

Yesterday I got the news that I will, indeed, need radiation, which means:

  • For the first 6 weeks of summer, instead of spending lazy mornings with my kids, I’ll be hauling myself to the hospital Monday through Friday for treatment. (Or if I choose the lazy mornings, I can forgo an afternoon outing with kids for an afternoon outing to radiation.)
  • I won’t be spending those two weeks in July at the beach with my family.
  • I can’t expose my upper (radiated) body to the sun. How does that work in east-coast summer?
  • And then there’s the fact that rather than being over and done with this breast cancer “journey” in the next several weeks, I’m looking at another 6-8 months at least, because I can’t continue with reconstruction until 3-6 months after I finish radiation. (Here’s where I start up again with the self-judgment for choosing reconstruction. Am I being vain instead of sane?)
  • To make matters worse, finishing reconstruction might mean (worst case scenario, but still a 30% chance) another major surgery: if the radiation damages my reconstructed breast, and I decide I still want a reconstructed breast, I’d need to start again. Starting again would mean going to Boston for an even more major surgery this time (here’s where I start to reconsider reconstruction altogether, which would lead me down another path lined with challenging implications); a surgery that would use my own body tissue, and hence affect multiple body sites, to build a new breast from scratch.

I knew this was likely. And yet, since I was diagnosed in October and told by the radiation oncologist that we wouldn’t know until after my surgery whether I’d need radiation, I’ve been holding out (so much) hope that surgery would be the end of treatment for me. That come summer, I’d be celebrating, not gearing up for my next round in the ring.

I’m feeling pretty sorry for myself tonight. I hate feeling sorry for myself. It’s a more pathetic-feeling flavor than “sad.”

And when I think about Harrison’s “It’s almost over,” my heart just aches for him. Maybe it still can be almost over for him and Sophie. Maybe this next round can fall on me without it also falling on them.

The two of them (turning-7-next-week-Sophie, and half-way-to-10-Harrison) are as happy as ever, and sometimes, I am struck by how amazing that is. Amazing that someone as unhappy as I was as a kid managed to grow up and make this incredibly blissful life for myself, and two incredibly blissful kids. Amazing that we’re making it through my breast cancer with that bliss intact—and maybe even blossoming.

Soon enough, that bliss will overpower the feeling sorry for myself. But damn, right now things sure do feel sucky.

From the Other Side of Surgery

The last ten days has felt like a trip through multiple time zones. I have moved in and out of emotional states quicker than I could land in any of them. I have also moved in and out of full anesthesia, followed by regular doses of pain meds; so that, coupled with the time-zones-slash-emotional-states has left me blurry and, to be honest, grasping for solid ground.

But let me back up and share, first, that all-in-all, I am feeling much better than expected post-surgery. Certainly physically. I have minimal pain. Some discomfort, especially at night, but nothing I (pain-wimp) can’t handle. I also have more mobility than expected. After three nights of sleeping half-sitting up, I can now fully recline and even lie on my right side. I have been warned by others who have traveled this road to be very careful. To do less than I think I can do. To not reach for that glass in the cupboard nor comb my children’s hair. Though because I didn’t have a double mastectomy, I can do both of those things with my right arm. Mostly, though, I lie in bed or on the couch and (I admit) watch a tremendous amount of TV. I haven’t been able to make much sense of my book. And until today, I haven’t been able to face the blank page to write. I have gone for one or two (very) short walks each day. (Starting in the hospital when I walked to the end of the hall and back. Who knew how exhausting that could be.) And tonight I ventured out for my first big event: the breast cancer support group at the Cancer Connection. Just being in that room made a difference in my emotional state. Yesterday was a dark-cloud kind of day. Today I felt some light.

But let me back up again. To my family’s return from Arizona. (Oh what an amazing trip. Oh how I long to be back there.) After months of dreading the arrival of my surgery date, all I wanted was for it to come already, so I could stop the waiting, the anxious, anxious waiting. By Tuesday night, I was almost excited to wake up the next day and go to the hospital. Relieved (to finally be done with the waiting) is a more accurate description, but relieved almost to the point of excitement. And I was calm. I composed a blog post in my head that I never did write; it went something like this:

I am not carrying fear to the hospital tomorrow. I am ready. I will be thinking about: (And here I posted, in my head, a series of pictures, which perhaps I will post, for real, tomorrow, when it is no longer the middle of the night: the Arizona red rocks; my closest Northampton women friends gathered around a dinner table with me two nights before surgery; some kind of adorable picture of my children; perhaps a bird being carried by the wind.)

I took my children to school Wednesday morning. I came home with just enough time to watch the slew of selfie-videos texted by my beloved Brooklyn crew. And then I drove with Josh to the hospital, with Maggie following behind in her car and my parents behind her. I met what turned out to be a most remarkable surgical Image 1team. I might have made inappropriate jokes as the drugs hit and they wheeled me to the OR. I have a vague recollection of referencing Grey’s Anatomy and warning the docs to be on better behavior than the ones on TV. I also remember a giddiness, like I wanted to hang out and drink beer together. And then, moments after taking in the bright lights and metal carts and thinking, “So this is what an operating room looks like,” I was out.

In the hours after I woke up, I remember a few things: eating left over pasta with Josh and thinking it was delicious. Not being able to open my eyes, they were so heavy with fatigue, so talking with closed lids to the medical people who cycled in and out to check on me. When someone checked my bandages, making the conscious decision not to open my eyes because I was too terrified to see my new body; wondering whether I would ever be able to look. Several hours later, wanting to look; looking; and feeling okay—and then feeling such tremendous relief about feeling okay.

All this happened sometime between Wednesday evening and Thursday afternoon. By Thursday night, I was home. By Friday night, my friend Jenae was here for the weekend (by my side along with Maggie, Josh and my parents); and my kids were gone for the weekend (having the time of their lives with my in-laws and nine of their cousins).

And I spent the next several days continuing to travel through multiple time zones and emotional states. I’ve done a tremendous amount of grasping. Wanting to be back in Arizona with my family. Wanting another taste of that giddy feeling I had in the OR; another taste of the relief I felt taking my kids to school on Wednesday morning, knowing I would soon be on the other side of surgery. Wanting time to stop moving so fast. Wanting my children to keep being children. Wanting my friends and family to keep showering me with love. Wanting to land in a time zone, in an emotional state, on my own two feet, long enough to catch my breath.

Today, Tuesday, I think I finally felt some ground beneath my toes.

Let’s see what tomorrow brings.

Eleven Things I Have Learned About Breast Reconstruction

  1. Reconstruction following a mastectomy is totally, completely, 100% covered by insurance in this country, no matter who, when, where, how it is done.
  2. Many people believe this is a great feminist feat. I am more skeptical. I suspect it is a way to minimize the number of women in the room with one or no breasts.
  3. If you choose to do reconstruction, you need to choose between implants or using your own body tissue. And then you need to choose what type of implant, or tissue from what part of your body. And then you need to choose what size and shape and position. And you only have certain choices at certain times with certain treatment plans and certain body types and it seems that every time I think I’ve connected the dots and figured out my options, I’m presented with some other piece of information that brings me back to the beginning.
  4. All of this makes choosing a type of reconstruction feel like a choose-your-own adventure story, where every decision leads you down a different path with different variables. Or maybe in this day and age it makes more sense to compare it to surfing the internet, where every option sends you to new links and new links and new links. How does one ever find her way home?
  5. If you choose not to get reconstruction following a mastectomy, you can choose to wear a prosthetic breast or two; you can buy special bras or can simply sew pockets into the ones you already have, slip in the plastic boob like you might slip your cell phone into the inside pocket of a coat.
  6. My friend’s mom once bent over at the beach and moments later, caught her plastic boob in her hand as it slipped right out of her suit. Apparently she had a great laugh over that one which makes me smile. But it also makes me wary of prosthetic breasts on beaches.
  7. Women who undergo a single mastectomy with no reconstruction sometimes feel off-balance.
  8. Some women are relieved to be rid of their breasts. Some mourn the loss of their breasts, then live the rest of their lives flat-chested. Some never give a single thought to not doing reconstruction.
  9. It turns out I am none of those women. Who knew I would ever have to think about breast reconstruction? Who knew I would end up among those who struggle and second-guess and change their minds and change their minds again before ultimately deciding to replace my breast of 40 years with something plastic.
  10. Breast reconstruction is nothing like a boob job.
  11. Many women who have gone through reconstruction are offended by the often-made comment that it is like a boob job. I am not offended (at least not yet). In fact, I’ve made that offensive comment—luckily only in reference to myself, not to someone else going through reconstruction, and now I know better. Now I also know not to get my hopes up about my new breast.