Who knew my new rallying cry, tits up, would actually work. It seems I am blessed with elastic skin with strong contraction abilities. It is hard to fathom how one month post surgery my left dangly removed implant stretch skin thing has contracted back incredibly. The skin contracts back if there is nothin left to stretch it. Some a lot, some not at all. Mine has. I knew about contraction but seriously. Not much can blow me away but this has. The looks of incredulity on my sister and niece’s faces when I showed them were priceless. Summed up how I felt. They saw me a month ago. And were devastated for me. Fuck me the body is an incredible thing. This time I am happy once again to be unusual. I saw my stylish Canadian plastic surgeon yesterday again. And ate humble pie. He knew. Or in my defence he hoped. And he was so brilliant with me. He also knew me losing it was also about so much more than how awful I looked. It was needed. It was about time and it was cathartic. Fuck cancer sucks. Look my man made breasts are in no way beautiful but they are more symmetrical. (As my baby daughter taught me re my eyebrows and I wish more knew this, they are sisters not twins) And thats all I wanted. And them to look breast like. And no not in a bra, but in real life. The real life I see reflected back at me in the mirror. So more surgery still needed to make a nipple, try fill in some dents, lipectomy under my arm where things have shifted as they shouldn’t and then fuck please we can be done.
Although it never is. Kate had dinner with her friends last night and beautifully they expressed concern over me and does this now mean, no more breast tissue, no more cancer? Unfortunately no. As I’ve bleated on previously, I am the one percent, my cancer came back where there was no breast tissue, where I had had a full mastectomy. So there is no guarantee of anything. I will be pricked and prodded and have to be vigilant with every bump and any fatigue, weight loss, aches and pains. But I plan to do it as I have to date, without fear. It truly is what it is. I will do what I can and what I must. As must we all. Tits up and onwards.
It’s time. About fucking time actually. Bizarrely almost 2 years to the day my world turned inside out again. In my last post I mentioned on 13 December we would decide to expand or not. We decided I needed to decide. I decided not to. I want to go back to the size I was. Not who I was because fuck she was a handful, but so were her boobs. And those I liked. Anyhow she doesn’t exist anymore and nor do her boobs. I was told to go away and have Christmas with my family sans expansion and we would reschedule surgery for the new year. So I did as I was told. January was too soon healing wise, and in February my stylish Canadian plastic surgeon decided he needed a break. So 6 March it is. And not a moment too soon. Fuck me these past two extra months carrying around this uncomfortable unexpanded tissue expander in lieu of a boob has been a tad challenging. But also started to become weirdly normal for me. I became strangely ok with this is how it is right now. Every now and again my bikini top would slip down, not much to keep it up, and no I can’t wear a fake prosthesis cos the unexpanded expander under a very thin layer of skin is damn uncomfortable, or I’d catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, not often I might add, I keep myself hidden from myself. Just so I can forget for a while. You know that out of sight out of mind thing? It works wonders you should try it. Until I notice someone’s glance linger where there is nothing, well there is something, a weird crinkly something, sort of not nothing but not enough of something. Anyway I catch a glimpse, shudder and think damn must get that sorted. That is not attractive. Should really just have gone free and flat. Nope still not there yet. I like me some boobs. Even if they’re not really boobs. Smoke and mirrors y’all. Will be very happy to be a handful again. For now. No Evidence of Disease and a handful. Yay fucking me.
So Tuesday my stylish Canadian plastic surgeon will remove the unexpanded tissue expander and fill the space with a small implant and reduce my left previously reconstructed breast to match. He will also do what he does to fashion a nipple and areole out of the back skin on my chest. The only symmetry I currently have is the symmetry of absolutely no sensation in my chest unless I flex my back muscles, go figure. Now I just want them to match. To sort of look and feel similar, give or take 10 years and much scarring and different surgeons. I’ve given up all semblance of control, sort of, but I love symmetry. My stylish Canadian plastic surgeon reminded me that they can only do what they can do, but he knows I will be happy. Compared to now. His version of trust me I’m a doctor. Well I do and I know I can’t control any of it, but I will be thrilled at this finally coming to rest. Bar a blood test or three. And then I can get my next tattoo. ‘You can. The end.’
I washed today and ironed today and washed some more and ironed some more. I am grateful B is home with a bag full of washing. I am. Really I am. But I hate ironing. And no, I simply cannot find my meditative ironing bliss. But I am grateful for the little chuckle at my life. At change. At choice. I am grateful for my newfound humility and my silly pride at a job well done. But I still hate ironing. And I still don’t do windows.