On June 22, 2023, I underwent a bilateral mastectomy to remove the cancer we knew about and to prevent the cancer that could come back in the future. I took a shower, got dressed in comfortable clothes, loaded my family into the car, and headed to the hospital. The kids sat in my prep room with me for a while and eventually asked to leave, which I had told them was ok to do. Eric stayed by my side and finally retired to the surgery waiting area after they wheeled me into the pre-op room.
The pre-op room is where I break. Always. It becomes so overwhelming and lonely, busy and hectic all circling itself. They are busy giving me this drug and that drug and then the heavy drugs, and I slightly float away to a semi-conscious plane of existence. Wheeled through the hallway, into a bright operating room, lots of noises, lots of people. My OB/GYN was there first. He had to perform the first surgery, which was to remove an IUD that had embedded itself in my uterine wall. He was so kind and said he was sorry that I had to be there. Said he would take good care of me. They spread out my arms, put the mask over my face, and said, “Here comes the sleepy medication,” and my eyes closed.
The next memory I have is Eric coming through my hospital room. Sweet Eric. At that moment, all is ok. I am alive. Eric is here. And nothing else matters.
Recovery has been easy. I stopped taking pain medication around day 2 or 3, as I had no pain. I had my first drains out after a week, and the second set out 19 days after surgery. I have had no infections or complications.
On day #6, I looked, really looked, at the warfare that had happened during those hours of sleep in the surgery room.
I stood before our bathroom mirror and looked at my reflection.
It wasn’t beautiful. It’s ugly. It was wounded and healing. It was void of parts of me that I’ve had my entire life. In its place was puckering skin, horrific incisions, unevenness, and remnants of the ink the plastics doctor put on before surgery.
It wasn’t beautiful, and yet, it was.
It is life. And I am grateful to be alive. And this, this ugly is now a part of who I am, and I can decide to hate it or love it. I can embrace the scars that will form and the imperfections that reconstruction brings, or I can wake up every day and find anger and sadness in the reflection in the mirror.
I went into liking who I was, with all my imperfections and perfections. Today isn’t the day to change that.
So, this is who I am now. Foobs and all.