So last Monday I had my man made nipples and areolae tattooed. Amazing what can be done with a little shading and artistry. Nicole, the beautiful feisty cosmetic tattoo queen, is an artist. An empathetic, caring, beautiful artist who has blown me away with her skill, her confidence, her humour and her kindness. I love my weird, very scarred, oddly shaped yet strangely normal, made up of back skin and pelvic area skin, with different shaped nipples, one ten years older than the other, and with the odd short and curly and absolutely no sensation, boobs. Or foobs some call them. False boobs. One with an implant one without. Ok, not normal at all but I’ve got what I wanted. The smoke and mirrors. At a glance I forget. In fact I remember but I smile rather than grimace. The tattoos are healing and crusting so hopefully all goes as it should without too much touching up required. Okay maybe not loving the foobs, but loving the illusion. But please know as happy as I am, as accepting as I have learnt to be, as often as I show you and I will, I would still rather have your perfectly imperfect breasts. Your old, saggy mismatched boobs. Your breastfed my children and look at them now breasts. Your flat breasts, your large boobs, your inverted nipples, your stretch marks, your droop. This has been torture, not a choice. I will do it again in a heartbeat to be here. But still. Please stop telling me how much better mine are than yours. Even if just to be kind. And remember, as do I, to always count your blessings. Nothing, nothing lasts forever.
These bloody checkups come round fast and consistently. Thankfully but also with a tinge of what the fuck. Is this how I measure the passage of time now. From surgery date to surgery date from oncologist appointment to oncologist appointment from script renewal to script renewal from blood test to blood test. Bloody hell. So, last oncology check up happened last week. I have reverted to type as in I do it because I must but it never instills fear or trepidation. In the same way I pop my aromasin like its panadol and then wonder why I feel so shite most of the time. Must be menopause, or old age. Anyhoo having a general chit chat with my oncologist, I mentioned B always comments on how I complain of headaches every morning, was wondering aloud at how bad my eyes have got when before I know it, I’m whipped off to have a brain scan. What the fuck? And that wasn’t the worst part, the worst part was that they couldn’t get a fucking vein to play along to inject the contrast dye. I had my scan with tears pouring down my stay very still face. Not due to the pain, nor due to fear, but due to that moment that has happened so much in my life when I am oblivious just before it all goes pear shaped. Was this another of those moments? Thank fuck not. So all I got out of this and its heaps is that, apart from my veins being fucked and that some phlebotomists are so much better than others or that I’m right to wince anytime someone suggests taking blood, but more that I am so justified in living in oblivion. Because each and every moment is a new one and who knows what the next one holds, so live it and love it and rejoice in the not knowing. Your worst fear may not come to pass, so don’t live life as if it will. Live life as if it won’t. And if it does, deal with that then. Oh and if you ever have to undergo chemotherapy and they strongly suggest a portacath. Take it.
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.’