Knowing Amy through our IClub connections, and sharing the breast cancer experience, I had to laugh at her stories about being naked in Iceland (see Naked at the Blue Lagoon post), and the decision to go with “innies” or “outies.” I also applaud her decision to go for reconstruction the whole way — including the outies. But I am a whole lot older than Amy, and I chose a different route.
Unlike some of you, I don’t carry a breast cancer gene. But at the age of 73, during a routine mammo, a suspicious shadow showed up. I went for the return screening on Dec. 5, and as the technician, and then the radiologist, came in and went over and over me with the sonar, I just knew something was there. At the same time, I had a feeling of complete peace come over me, as I also knew it was in God’s hands, and I would be all right, no matter what the progress of the disease might be.
Things happened so fast, I really didn’t have time to stress out over it. An immediate biopsy was ordered, and I reported to the doctor on Dec. 20 for the results. My dear husband was with me, very apprehensive. My two daughters, ages 45 and 50, were on tenterhooks about the possible diagnosis.
My surgeon was very capable, but not especially sensitive. He walked into the room and announced, “Well, it is cancer, and we will be doing a modified radical mastectomy.”
I wasn’t surprised, but I was speechless. I had expected he would slide into the diagnosis and discuss options. But my sweet husband, in utter shock, sputtered, “But, what will they put in its place?”
Now I found my voice. Quite firmly I said, “Nothing!” It’s funny that the initial discussion was about reconstruction rather than than the procedure itself.
The doctor assured him reconstruction could be done at the same time as the surgery, and they surely had enough fatty tissue to work with. But they also would need to reduce the size of my other breast, so they would match. My surgeon said, “You wouldn’t want an 18-year-old reconstructed breast next to a 73-year-old one!”
I again reiterated that there would be no reconstruction, as I wanted nothing to do with moving around any more tissue than necessary, and certainly not a surgical attack on the other breast.
All this of course was right before Christmas, with its usual full slate of activities and long to-do list. Again, I didn’t have time to stress, and didn’t. There was not a tear shed by me, or even any feeling of anxiety.
Surgery was scheduled for Dec. 30, and I was home the next day. A lovely way to start the New Year, but we had some remodeling scheduled for the kitchen and dining room, and we went right ahead with it, so I had plenty to keep on my mind beside my healing process.
The healing process actually wasn’t as smooth as the surgery itself. Fluid under the skin kept building up, even with the “ticks” in place to drain it. I had to have more installed, and when the skin eventually adhered, it developed a deep fold.
I was really upset by that. I complained to my surgeon that there very well could be pumas in that crevasse. He looked at me like I was nuts; he was too young to remember the Smothers Brothers. (For readers also too young to remember, they had a hilarious routine, the punch line was, “There are pumas in the crevasses.”)
He offered to do a correction, but I thought not. I did some research and found a plastic surgeon willing to do surgery to modify the scar area. It is strange that Medicare and insurance companies are more willing to pay the higher price for reconstruction than a much simpler scar modification, but I found one, and he did a wonderful job.
So, Amy, it is probably just as well I didn’t get to accompany the group to Iceland. I would really have gotten some stares with my original, now 76-year-old breast, and a nice, smooth, flat surface on the other side.
But I am happy with it, my wonderful husband doesn’t have any problems, and my clothes work just fine with my store bought silicone gel boob. And, most importantly, I am into the fourth year, all clear.