"I will wonder on...."

Now that I'm back to working full-time and I'm not all cancer, all the time, my life is beginning to resemble that of a real life.  However, every time I have felt that way, something has come along to pull the rug from underneath me (see: double-freaking-mastectomy).  I've been back to work for a month now, and I'm probably a month away from my last surgery to finish off the reconstruction, which I will call....

The Boob Finale.  

I really hope this surgery is the last one for awhile because frankly, I'm sick of the hospital, dealing with anesthesia and becoming a "regular" at the hospital.  Next month will mark my second cancer-versary, and I'll probably have The Boob Finale before then.  That will be five, FIVE, surgeries within two years, and lord, I am tired.  

I'm so tired.

My body is just so unrecognizable from my neck down to my belly button.  From my five surgeries, I have 11 new scars on my body.  The double mastectomy added six to the Scar Count.  My chest looks like a road map to hell, with  my boobs the Mountains of Pain.  I go through periods, and I'm apparently in one of them now, where I just don't recognize my own body on the inside and out.  I consider times like this mourning periods where I miss what I used to look and feel like.  

I miss happy, care-free Lara, who occasionally had to deal with anxiety attacks and no drive to succeed.  Now, I feel like I should constantly be doing something, anything.  I feel extremely driven to finish my cancer memoir so I will have put something out into the universe, a legacy of some kind.  What if something bad happens to me again - will anyone know I have existed if the Big Bad C word comes back and I'm done for?  I have to get my mind off things and concentrated on something.  

Depression is a helluva beast to try to live with and hopefully conquer.  I'm naive enough to think I can overcome this depression and try to regain some of that sense of wellness I had before the cancer hammer came smashing down.  When I think too much about what's happened to me in the last two years, I could cry for days and not get off the couch.  (Poor Boomer will lay next to me whenever I get this way, like, "It's okay, Mom.  No need to be sad when I'm here.")  

I'm hoping that after the Boob Finale that a lot of this fear and anxiety about my mortality will subside, and I can just live.  I don't want to live a life, fearing death.  Nobody should live like that.  

Woot!

I went to Nordstrom's lingerie department for help dealing with my asymmetrical and just plain weird-looking chest.  The manager of the department apparently is trained to deal with mastectomy patients, and her and I became besties.  I'm now the proud owner of a wireless bra and ENHANCERS.  

Before any help.

My right side has more CCs of saline than the left one, since the right side was so difficult to push out.  When the stretching happened, it just started to expand into my right armpit, hence the cock-eyed boobs.

Here, I have on a wireless bra with an enhancer on the right side.  I might do enhancers on both sides, we'll see.  It's a subtle difference, but it means something to me.  I know nobody is staring at my chest when we're out and about.  Knowing that my chest looks normal and doesn't reflect the drama that's happened... well, that means the world to me.

And here's Boomer in the same shirt, haha.

Reconstruction with Expanders

A lot of people have asked me what exactly does reconstruction via expanders entails?  I have had to explain to some that boobs don't happen overnight (I wish!), and that it is a long process designed to stretch out your skin.  While I have been taking pictures of my boobs or foobs for my own personal reference, I won't ever post them online.  I'm willing to tell people about breast cancer but showing pictures of my chest is the one thing I'm uncomfortable with.  

The first picture is me several weeks after my reconstruction (since I don't see any drains coming out of me, it's at least a week and a half after my surgery).  Not a flattering picture of me since it looks like I have a wet spot on my boob, but no, just antibiotic cream.  The expanders created the semblance of boobs after the surgery so I wasn't completely flat.

Look mom, no boobs.

Every week, I go into the plastic surgeon's office and get my chest expanded.  The following picture is after two expansions, so the chest is getting a bit bigger.  All in all, I think I have had four so far.  

Grow, boobs, grow!

When I go in for an expansion, they take me back to one of the mini surgery rooms.  The doctor has me lay down on this bed.

Always bring a book or something to entertain you.

This....

... becomes this.

This saline solution will soon be in my chest.

The beauty of science.

As the needle is placed in my chest and the saline is going in, I just stare up at the light and go to my happy place.

This is the face of someone who hates mid-day appointments, and having to wait well over an hour after a scheduled appointment time.  

MY TIME IS VALUABLE TOO!!

Any questions?

Oversharing

I'm an over-sharer.  Whenever I'm nervous in a social setting, I tend to ramble on and on, even trying to make jokes.  When I interviewed for a Red Cross internship back when I was in college, I spent most of the interview cracking jokes and hearing my inner voice scream, "SHUT UP, LARA.  STOP MAKING JOKES.  JUST LISTEN." 

I walked out of that interview thinking I had blown it.  Much to my surprise, I got the internship but I felt like I lucked out.

Lately, since I've been on leave, I have been over-sharing to people who really didn't need or want to hear the whole explanation.  I've been telling people that I had a double mastectomy, but then I feel awkward because I obviously have boobs.  

The husband of a friend of a friend came over to take a look at my roof because it needs some work on it.  I said that I was off work because of a double mastectomy but then I felt compelled to explain why I still had boobs.  Then my awkward nervous tic kicked in even more and I started talking about how soon I'll have real fake boobs.  The dude, a happily married husband and father of a cute baby, did not need to hear any of it and looked obviously uncomfortable.  (I learned later from his wife that he was very uncomfortable and "just wanted to get out of there."  Sigh....)   I probably traumatized him, which I hope isn't the case.  I really need someone to fix my roof.  If I have to, I'll promise to never say a single word about anything related to my cancer and its surgeries.

Hearing that someone was so uncomfortable that he just wanted to get away from me is completely embarrassing.  He wasn't embarrassed to be next to someone who had breast cancer and a double mastectomy; he was embarrassed to hear way too much information about her boobs.  I learned the hard way that I just need to say that I had a double mastectomy and immediate reconstruction.  That's it.  I don't need to go into detail about what reconstruction entails because that just opens up an awkward can of worms.  

Ever since my surgery, I haven't really interacted with other people like I normally do.  It's been me and Boomer and then my boyfriend at night.  All I have in my life seems to be cancer and well, that's about it.  My friends are going through amazing changes in their lives, like new relationships, getting married and/or having babies.  Me... I've been dealing with breast cancer for almost two years.  But you know, I created this awkward, all-cancer all-the-time mindset of mine.


To anyone who I have made uncomfortable talking about my cancer, surgery and then body post cancer, I'm really sorry.  I speak before I really think about what I'm saying.  I need to control that nervous tic of mine where I over share, tell jokes and turn into TMI girl because if I keep this up, no one is going to want to hang out with me.  

Sigh...

Going Back to Work

I'm very happy to report that I'll be returning to work on July 3rd, exactly six weeks after my double mastectomy.  One might think I'd be dreading going back to work.  Oh no no, quite the opposite.  I'm very excited to be heading back to work.  I'm getting my life back, y'all.

I've already been off work three months when I was first diagnosed, and now add six weeks on top of that.  I'd say 4.5 months of sitting around my house, being sick or injured, is enough "Lara" time.  I'm done.  I had an expansion appointment today, causing my chest area to hurt so much to warrant a pain pill.  I have one or two more expansions left, and I'm likely having my last surgery in early to mid August.  I can still work in the meantime while I finish this out.  

I like my company.  My bosses and managers have been nothing but accommodating to me during these two years.  I get along with my coworkers, and I have the fortunate ability to be able to work from home a lot.  Or pretty much whenever I want.  My company isn't some gossipy place or mean spirited.  We're all friendly and sometimes even hang out together after work hours.  My one coworker and I get off on television or movie discussions when either one of us needs a break.  I'm looking forward to getting back and interacting with everyone again.

I'm also looking forward to just increased human interaction.  I feel as if I have been stuck in my house because derp, I have been home bound for most of this time.  I've spent a lot of time at the dog park with Boomer dog, so I do look tan, like "Herrm, maybe she's not so sick, eh?"  I swear I am/was!  Taking Boomer to the dog park requires little physical effort on my part, so it's been ideal for me during my time off. I get out of the house, and Boomer gets exercise and socialization.

It will also be nice to have something more to talk about than my damn boobs, lack of boobs, re-emergence of boobs or any other topic regarding boobs, bronchitis or something sick-related.  I can talk about work, like anything interesting or what's going on in finance.  I won't be just sickie Lara who stays home a lot.  I can dive back into the world of finance, which interests me a great deal.

Also, I can start saving a bit of money, so my boyfriend and I can go on a big, tropical vacation within the year.  

I got planz and dreamz, yo.

Happy days!

I tried on my bras from before my surgery, and guess what, ladies and gentlemen?  THESE THINGS FIT IN THEM.  Granted, they didn't fit perfectly because I have expanders in, and these things are stationery, flat and wide set.  Once I switch the expanders out for implants, then they will fall as naturally as implants do and spread out.  I will fill out a bra.  

I FIT IN MY OLD BRAS!!!!

If Righty doesn't cooperate because right now, it's not as full as Lefty, I can just add padding to a bra.  No worries.  This is a good day.  One more expansion, and hopefully the implant surgery isn't far behind.

Reconstruction

I had my second expansion today for Ye Olde Chest, and I'm very happy with the results.  Last week, the doctor inserted 60 ccs of solution into each foob, and today I received another 60 ccs of saline.  The first day after an expansion includes a lot of discomfort and periodic bouts of pain throughout the boob area.  It's not pretty.  Well, it kind of is pretty.  I look down at my chest and am beginning to like what I see.  

Oh yeah, I'm sexy.

I'll probably post before and after pictures after my expansion next week.  You'll see me go from flat to a B or C cup.  It's pretty remarkable what doctors can do.

Small Steps

Today I made dinner for boyfriend and I for the first time, and I walked Boomer by myself.  My short-term disability originally had me returning tomorrow.  

TOMORROW.  

I called my rep last week and said that my plastic surgeon wasn't going to sign off on me returning after four weeks.  She admonished me for not sending them in the necessary paperwork earlier.  Well, sorry, dude.  I'm exhausted and stoned on various medication most of the time.  I wish I was better and more on my game, but I'm not.

I received a letter today, confirming my return to work date of June 19.  Nooooo.  I called the rep back and she assured me that I am off work until July 2nd.  I think I asked three or four times, "So, I'm not expected to go back to work tomorrow?"

The answer to that is thankfully no.

I'm glad.  I really want to go back to work with all this shit behind me.  My company has been nothing but accommodating and awesome to me, so I'd feel bad if I came back and said, "Welp, still not done.  My chest is going to take forevs."  They deserve an employee who can devote 100 percent to the job at hand.  

Frankly, and most of you will find this odd, I actually miss going to work.  I feel like it's been ages since I've been to work and then my surgery.  I know it's only been four weeks tomorrow since my surgery, but it feels like months since the surgery.  Time has been dragging.  Boyfriend suggested that I take the remaining time off and do something great with my time off.  

Uhhhh.  

"This isn't a vacation, sweetie."

I'll be happy once I can go back to work and finally, just finally, getting my life back.  I'm the type of person who needs something to do, and my job fulfills that need in me.  Right now, I'm sore, exhausted and in pain, but yet I keep trying to find something to do.  

I gotz issues, yo.

Body Acceptance

Every time I take a shower, I take a good long look at these things on my chest.  I stand there and stare.  Not like in a "yo, I look good" appreciative way, but more like, "Everything okay?" quizzical manner.  I stare at every stitch, every scar, every perceived swollen spot.  I don't spend like 10 or 20 minutes just looking at myself or anything.  I do a body check to make sure nothing new pops up on me.

Ever since my expansion, my left side is starting to resemble a breast.  The right side, of course, still looks all sorts of messed up.  I'm hoping that with one or two more expansions that will change and my chest will look somewhat normal.  It's not going to happen overnight, that's for sure.  Rome wasn't built in a day, and my chest certainly wasn't either.  Since I did not have a nipple-sparing mastectomy, that means (duh) I no longer have nipples.  Before all the cancer happened, I would have thought that would be hard for me to accept.  "Oh my god, I am a freak girl with NO NIPPLES."  Surprisingly, I don't really care.  I don't see this as what I don't have (nipples) and more like what I do have (boobs that aren't trying to kill me).  Pretty sure I got the better deal in this trade.

My body acceptance includes understanding and being okay with that I am covered in scars almost from head to toe.  I have two scars on my belly button, a scar underneath my right armpit, and a scar across my neck.  I'll have two scars across each fake boob and probably four scars where each of my drains were inserted in my chest.  I look nothing like I did in August 2010 - that girl is gone.  Then again, that girl was all cancery with a non-working thyroid.  She might have been a skinny little thing with all her body parts, but serious illness and possible death was lurking.  (Okay, going to stop referring to myself in the third person 'cuz that's just creepy.)

I'm starting to see my scars as battle wounds, not skin imperfections to hide and be ashamed of.  Sure, I have days where I look at myself and wish that things were different, though those days are fewer and far between.  I doubt that I will walk around in shorts and a bikini top, proclaiming for all to hear, "CANCER GAVE ME THIS BODY."  I didn't walk around like that before my cancer and certainly won't start now.  Ha.  

Do I regret having a double mastectomy?  I absolutely do not and doubt that I ever will.  I'd do it again if I had to (oh God, I hope I don't have to).  Ever since the great Boobicide of 2012, a lot of my fears and anxiety about ending up like my mother are gone.  I threw everything I could and then some at breast cancer, and I will never see this surgery as a regret or mistake.

Doctors, doctors and more doctors

I have three doctors appointments this week.  On Wednesday, I'll be seeing my breast surgeon and the plastic surgeon.  Plastic surgeon will be taking out my stitches, which will make wearing slightly tight clothing a lot easier.  If my shirt is too tight, then you can the stitches, or as I'd like to call them, the artwork of my plastic surgeon.  I've been hiding my chest in reconstruction with either drapey tunics or a strategically placed scarf.

Caution: Boob work in progress.

I'm nervous about this upcoming appointment with Plastic Surgeon.  My right side, formerly the home of the murderous Sideshow Boob, has been hurting a lot more than the left side.  My back, toward the bottom of my right shoulder blade, just feels tender.  I'm nervous that nefarious plans (like an infection or who knows) are happening inside my body, and I have no say in them.  I have been telling myself that so far, everything is okay since I don't have a fever.  Maybe since my right side had the previous surgery, chemo and radiation, then it's just common sense that the side would be super tender.  Who knows... oh wait, the Plastic Surgeon will.

I really really really want to walk through this reconstruction with flying nipples, er, color.  I haven't had the best of luck when it came to this whole cancer thing, and I want something, anything, to go smoothly.  Please, purdy please.  

I also find out when Plastic Surgeon thinks I can go back to work and when the tissue expanders leave and the fake boobs come in.  This will be quite a week.

On Thursday, I'll be seeing Unibrow to discuss my life post double mastectomy.  I will not be happy if he suggests me going on Tamoxifen again.  I hated taking that drug every single time it went down my gullet.  It screwed with my mind and my body.  I don't want to spend the next four or five years of my life feeling like a menopausal bitch.  I'm in my early 30s and that drug makes me feel like I'm in my 50s or 60s.  I should be enjoying life and sex, not complaining about hot flashes and worrying about blood clots and uterine cancer.

Three appointments plus a blood draw means a busy week for me.

Celebration & Realistic Expectations

My surgeon called me tonight to tell me the pathology results of my bilateral mastectomy.  She began the conversation by telling me that the initial results came back specific.  However, Lefty had a fibroadenoma in it with suspicious stuff in it.  According to my breast surgeon, the specimen was sent to a lab in Boston, Mass., for further examination.  (Wow.)  The results came in that night and she wanted to tell me right away.

The results being: Lefty had a fibroadenoma with presence of atypia hyperlasia.  In other words, pre-(maybe even an extra pre-)cancerous cells but not cancer.  Sideshow Boob, fka Righty, had NO EVIDENCE OF CANCER, meaning that I did this surgery at the right moment.  I had my boobs removed at a moment they were not trying to kill me.  The 95 percent odds are true for me.

I just want to emphasize that I am not free from cancer or cured.  Once it happens, the risk of return (however the return may be) is always there.  I'm always going to have to remain vigilant and alert for possible things wrong.  I'll be a lot less anxious about breast cancer, but I'm not going to pretend this never happened.

How about that

Sneezing post mastectomy hurts like hell.

This has been a post.

Recovery

It's been well over a week since my double mastectomy, and I'm still feeling like absolute poo.  You heard me. POO.  

Yesterday, my neighbor dropped me off at the hospital for my follow-up visit to the plastic surgeon.  I wobbled out of my house, and off we went.  I am so unbelievably lucky to have amazing neighbors like I do.  The neighbors across the street from me are so nice and helpful.  It's a guy maybe in his mid to late 30s, his super sweet girlfriend, and his two teenage boys.  His girlfriend was the one who took me to the hospital and then afterwards, walked my dog as I did my best to keep up with the two of them.

The family that lives right across the alley from me are all such nice people.  Every single one of them.  Boomer loves the second-youngest daughter in that family and would leave me in a heartbeat for her.  If Boomer happens to be outside when J comes home, then my dog will start crying and try to leap over our 5-foot fence.  

Anyway, at the plastic surgeon office, I happily learned that since my drain output was less than 20 ml within 24 hours, all four of my drains could be pulled.  After my surgery, two JP drains (or as Jo referred to them, "goo grenades") were placed on my left and right side.  When I got home and had to take care of the drains myself, they quickly became cumbersome.  Two to three days ago, the drains on my right side caused this redness to appear behind my shoulder.  Yesterday, the plastic surgeon attributed the redness to the fact that, and I quote, I'm a "delicate flower." 

Plastic surgeon also scolded me for not logging my output correctly.  I summed up all the drainage, instead of marking each JP individually.  "Nobody told you to do that," he scolded me.  "I've been on heavy narcotics for a week," I replied.  "I'm lucky I know my name."

Seriously, between the morphine in the hospital and then oxycodone, my memory has been cloudy and full of holes.  Maybe the nurses at AGH shouldn't give patients discharge instructions without a non-drugged person present.  Just a suggestion.

When the nurse came in to pull my drains.... oh my dog.  I knew it was going to hurt and sting "a little" but the first one hurt like an absolute torture device.  

One.  Two.  Three.

I could feel the tubing just being ripped out of my body, and it honestly felt like the kind nurse had just stabbed me in the side.  The stinging sensation lasted minutes, not seconds.  I started crying and feeling like a failure for not being able to take the pain.  "Tough it out, [last name]," I muttered to myself through tears.

I really wanted to take every procedure thrown at me with an amount of sarcasm and toughness.  The drain pulling, while a relief, affected me a lot more than I had anticipated.  I mustered up all the strength I had left in me, and made it through the three remaining drains.  Right now, I have bandages on both sides.  I'm also finding myself a lot more skilled in wound care than ever before.  Clean, disinfect, cover.  

Now, I have to just keep resting and slowly working my shoulders and arms to get back to the pre-mastectomy abilities.  I'm getting my stitches taken out next week, and then 3 to 4 weeks post mastectomy, we are going to start inflating up my faux-boobs to whatever size I want.  The doctor did say my wounds look amazing and that I'm healing beautifully.  

Next up, fake boobies!

Double Mastectomy

The long-awaited, much-feared double mastectomy surgery has come and gone. 

The night before my surgery, I was a complete wreck (and did regret that I didn't ask my surgeon to prescribe me some anti-anxiety meds).  Skydiving distracted me from actually thinking about the fact that I would be getting rid of both of my boobs.  When that was gone, I had nothing to distract me and the thoughts... oh the thoughts just crushed me.   I kept looking down at my boobs and desperately wished there was another option I could take.

A lot of my tears came from the fact that I didn't have any options.  The atypical hyperlasia was a warning shot that cancer wasn't quite done with me yet.  A double mastectomy was my only option f I didn't want to go through the hell that is a cancer treatment again. I would do (and have proved it) anything to prevent going through chemotherapy again.  We dropped Boomer off at the kennel the night before, so I didn't have my furry creature to help alleviate my anxiety.

Boyfriend and I arrived at the hospital at 6 in the morning.  We were both exhausted, physically and mentally.  I was able to keep the crying in check until the orderly came to bring me down to the surgery prep area.  I sobbed and reached out for my Sweetie, who looked devastated that he couldn't help me or save me from this surgery.  I just lost it.  Despite the fact they wanted to kill me, I didn't want to get rid of them.  (I just felt that I had to get rid of them.)

When they brought me into the cold and weirdly bright surgical room, I made a room full of strangers pray for me that I would be okay.  "Please please," I begged them.  "I don't know if I am going to be able to handle this.  Pray that I have the strength."

I woke up many hours later to a small, minor surprise.  My bottom lip was swollen.  What the hell, I thought.  I never had a fat lip before, so the sensation was new and weird.  My bottom lip was numb but yet I could still tell it was twice its normal size.  The nurses told me that they had issues intubating me, and somehow my lip got knocked hard.  Strange.  I always thought if I had a black eye or a fat lip, then I mouthed off to the wrong person.

During my first night in the hospital, I wasn't allowed to get up at all.  I hurt all over, so this was a rule I appreciated and followed.  My dad came by the hospital after getting off work, and he hung out with me and the boyfriend.  My dinner that night was grape juice and orange jello, which my dad fed to me.  "I've done this before, you know," he joked, smiling at me.

"Just don't make the same noises you did when you last did it," I joked back.

"Who wants to fly?" he said, moving the spoon of jello around like an airplane.

It's a hard pill to swallow when you're in your early 30s and someone has to feed you.  I've learned a long time ago that pride means nothing during cancer treatment.  You have to ask for help, or you are just going to suffer.  Accept the fact that you have to receive help and be thankful for the help you receive.  I'm glad my dad was there to help me (thanks, daddio!).  

The next day, my twin and my bestie best friend Amber, came by and hung out with me for most of the day. We skirted with danger there.  It hurt to laugh, and those two can make me laugh a lot.  For awhile, my twin just stayed silent and kept his snark to himself.  Ha!  The three of us had fun conversing with the coolest nurse aide ever: Charles.  It's a real joy to interact with someone who truly gives a shit about his job and wants to help you.  Charles was awesome, and he thought my twin (who, as most know, really isn't my sibling) was a pimp for having dated me and then his now wife, Amber.  "You the man!" he said to my twin.

I also got the impression that Charles was surprised that Amber and I didn't hate each other.  Friendships don't always encounter through conventional methods.  When a true friend comes along, you hold onto that person and your friendship like the gift it is.  (I imagine Amber is rolling her eyes and calling me cheesy right now, hahah.)   Charles the Great kept looking at us like we were the strangest people he had ever encountered. 

One of the major steps I took while in the hospital was looking at my new boobs (aka the Foobs).  I went into the bathroom, pulled up my stinky hospital robe and stared at my chest.  Much to my surprise, I didn't freak out when I saw my new chest.  Since I had the expanders in and 100 ccs of solution was already placed inside each breast, I had some semblance of breasts.  

Instead of nipples and areolas, I have a long line of stitches that extend across each "foob."  I thought if I saw my chest without the nipples and areolas, then I would scream, "I'm a freak!" and then run out of the room screaming.  Because of the SCAR Project, I knew what to expect post-mastectomy.  My image was not shocking to me.  After I saw my foobs, I shrugged and muttered to myself, "Not bad."   Since I knew what to expect, the whole process was a lot easier.  

However, I was surprised to see my right breast scars still there.  I still have the scar from my first breast surgery and then the scar from my biopsy from two months ago.  I thought they were going to take all my skin and then stretch out all this skin.  I can't exactly explain what I was expecting.   It was just shocking when you were thinking all evidence of your former body would be gone and then saw it in the same spot.  I found that odd and a little unsettling.

I am home.  I'm exhausted both physically and emotionally.  I'm a little high on the pain meds, which is great because I've had my share of pain and then some.  My dog is leaving me alone for the time being.  I think she can tell I'm hurt because she usually doesn't keep her distance from me.  Boomer likes to be all up in my bizness.

Finally, do I regret my decision?  Absolutely not.  Breast cancer was coming back for me.  I have no doubt about it.  This surgery quite possibly saved me from another round with this disease, allowing me to live a long and healthy life.

A life without my own boobs.

Double Mastectomy

I am pretty stressed out about my upcoming surgery and leave.  I keep thinking that I'm going to be some cripple afterwards, and I won't be able to do anything for myself.  I know that's not really the case but my anxiety, which is typically accompanied by irrational fears, makes me think, "YOU ARE GOING TO BE SO HURT AND WON'T BE ABLE TO DO ANYTHING."  My head is filled with worst case scenarios, and I keep thinking of all the things I wish I could do prior to my surgery.

I'm hoping that this leave won't be my like my last medical leave, where I was so out of it that I could barely do anything.  Chemotherapy and then radiation took away my personality and my ability to deal with, well, anything.  It made me so exhausted.  I didn't look or feel like myself.  God, I hope that this surgery will just make me a bruised and tired version of myself.  Sure, it's going to be weird to look at my chest and go, "WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?  WHERE DID MY NIPPLES GO?"  (Oh yeah, they are going to take my nipples.)  But it's going to mean a lot if I can look in the mirror and go, "Oh hai there."  

My anxiety can be paralyzing at times.   

If you want to see what I'll be looking like after my surgery, check out The Scar Project.  Check out the beautiful red-head with glasses and fake boobs with no nipples.  I saw this Exhibit when I was in New York City last fall, and it was amazing.

Double Mastectomy FAQ

I've had a handful of friends ask me similar questions, so I figured, "Hey, why not make a post, explaining what's about to happen."

When is your surgery and how long are you going to be in the hospital?

My mastectomy is scheduled for May 22nd, a Tuesday, and I don't know how long I'll be in the hospital.  I was told it could be two days or six days.  My stay all depends on how I react and recover after the surgery.  If I'm having a hard time, then I'm going to stay longer because they're not going to send me home in bad shape.

Are you immediately going to have a new set of knockers?

The answer to that is no.  "Immediate reconstruction" is a tad misleading because it's not like I'm trading my real ones for a set of fake ones.  Instead of tram flaps (since I don't have much fat in my belly), I opted to do expanders with fake boobs.  It's a process that will take several months.  After my mastectomy, my plastic surgeon is going to insert expanders into a pocket in my chest wall.  You see, when they take your boobies, they also take the skin that came with said boobs.  The doctors have to expand (hence, expanders) the remaining skin so that a fake boob can eventually be inserted.  Each week, I'll go into my surgeon's office and he'll work his magic and increase the expanders, thus stretching out the skin ever so much.  I want to try and recreate the boobs I have now, but I understand that when my skin says "No mas!" then that's the size boobs I'll end up with.

Are you ready?

You know, I don't think I'll ever be ready to have a double mastectomy.  I don't want to have this surgery, but I feel like I have no choice.  Since my one-year mark showed pre-cancerous cells, the surgery feels like my only way to tell breast cancer to eff off once and for all.  I wish it didn't have to come to this, but I don't want to have to go through cancer treatment again.

Is there anything I can do?

For my local Pittsburgh people, I would love to have company when I'm recuperating.  As long as you don't mind that visiting me means dealing with my crazy dog, I would love to have visitors!  If you want to help me in other ways, like driving me to the store or anywhere just so I get out of the house, masel tov!   I'll take it.  I should be off work approximately four to six weeks, and I'll be prohibited from anything strenuous, like walking Boomer, exercise or anything really.  Heh.  One thing that my first go-around with cancer taught me, screw your pride.  I'll ask for help when I need it.  Cooking, cleaning or dog walking.  If you can help, then I will be very very grateful.

As for my loved ones who don't live near Pittsburgh, I will do my best to answer the phone if you want to call me to check up on me. I'll probably be on some good drugs so I apologize in advance for any slurring.  Ha.

I'll update this if more questions come my way.

Boob Eulogy: 1992 to 2012

Warning: Parental discretion is advised.  By that, I mean if you are my parent, then you might not want to read what I am about to write.

(32 year old Lara comes to the podium): We are gathered here today to mourn the passing of my boobs.  We have several special guests who wish to speak about both Righty, the murderous bastard, and Lefty, the innocent victim.

(12 year old Lara walks shyly to the podium, complete with big pink glasses, an overbite and an unfortunate haircut): Hi... uh, hi, my name is Lara.  I just passed sixth grade, and I'm going to enter the seventh grade.  Uh, yeah, so, I don't really know what to say about my boobs.  (Awkward giggle.)  These things, like, showed up and I haven't really known what to do with them.  (Stares down at her feet.)  I really don't like it when anyone stares at me.  I have noticed that, uh, sometimes... um, when people look at me that they are laughing at me.  So uh, I like to wear big baggy T-shirts so that nobody looks at me.  I don't want any attention or uh, like any attention.  I just want to be left alone.  In conclusion, I would like to tell my boobs that in the beginning, they made me feel really self conscious.  I'm sorry that they have to go, but uh, I wasn't happy when they showed up at the end of the sixth grade.

(32 year old Lara comes back to the podium): Thank you, middle school Lara.  That was... weird and a touch of awkward.   Okay, next up will be high school Lara.

(17 year old Lara walks up to the podium, with big wire-rimmed glasses and frizzy hair): Hi, I'm Lara.  I'm about to enter my senior year, and I have a fun job at the local amusement park, Worlds of Fun.  As you can see by my large-sized polo shirt, you cannot see my boobs.  Just like middle school Lara, I'm not comfortable with clothes that are tight or too revealing.  Oh you will not believe it, but my coworkers accused me of being flat-chested one day.  When I said, "No way, guys.  I"m a 34-C," they still didn't believe me.  I had to go back in the closet, take off my bra, and then show them.  You should have seen their jaw drops.  My plan sort of, uh, backfired on me because for weeks, I keep hearing them say, "Lara's a 34-C?"  My friends are really sweet.  They keep wanting to take me shopping for clothes that show off my figure.  I didn't even know I had a figure but apparently so.  So to my boobs, I'm sorry to hear about your demise.  I also would like to apologize for never showing yoFu off like I should have.  Again, I'm not a fan of any attention.  Good luck, present day Lara.

(32 year old Lara comes back to the podium): I, too, regret you not showing off the boobs back when you were a tiny little thing.  You might have actually got a date in high school or gone to one of those high school dances.  Oh well.  Okay, next up is college graduate Lara.

(22 year old Lara steps up to the podium, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and now wearing clothes that show off the Girls): Howdy folks.  I am 22-year-old Lara, and last year, I had a surgery to remove a benign tumor in my right breast.  The surgery left a nice scar right by my cleavage.  See?  (Pulls down her shirt ever so slightly to reveal a purplish scar.)  This scar has come in handy when I'm at the bar, trying to score free drinks.  Guys are such easy targets.  All I have to do is ask one of them if they want to see my scar.  Presto, a beer magically arrives in front of me.  It's awesome.  Anyway, I am really sorry to hear that the boobs are now a hazard, not the asset they once were.  The surgery last year was really scary and a wake up call about breast cancer.  It's real, and it's coming.  At least now, I am more comfortable with showing them off. (Flashes her boobs to the audience.)

(32 year old Lara returns to the podium, with a big smile on her face): Our final special speaker is 28 year old Lara.

(28 year old Lara steps up to the podium, with big black glasses and dyed red hair): What's going on?  I'm also Lara.  It took me awhile but I have finally accepted what my body looks like.  I'd like to thank Stacey and Clinton from What Not to Wear for inspiring me to actually give a crap about my appearance.  Anyway, I've been getting mammograms and ultrasounds for a couple of years now.  Since my mom was diagnosed at 35, my doctors have been putting me through the ringer since I was 25.  It's for the greater good, I keep telling myself every year I go in for these tests.  I hate it.  I really do, but it's what I have to do.  So to my boobs, I'd like to say, "Fuck you."  I will do everything in my power to destroy you if you come at me.  Good luck, present day Lara.  I have faith that you will get through this just fine.  You have done everything you could to make sure you don't end up like Mom.

(28 year old Lara and 32 year old Lara embrace on stage, with 32 year old Lara returning to the podium): All very touching words from Lara throughout the years.  I'd like to say about my boobs is this... Righty, you have been a bastard for a very long time.  I am happy to see you go.  I hope you rot in hell, you murderous breast.  Lefty, I'm sorry to see you go, too, but you have to pay for Righty's misdeeds.  A double mastectomy is frightening, but this is what you have to do to beat breast cancer once and for all.  Before the partial mastectomy two years ago, I used to think I had the most perfect breasts.  Now, I see them for what they are: threats.  It's time to say good bye.  I will not die for my breasts.  

May 22, 2012

I will be having my double mastectomy and immediate reconstruction that date.  Well, saying "immediate" is a bit misleading.  It might take me two months to finally get a pair of knockers that I'll be happy with.  I thought I'd be freaking out now that I know a date.  Right now, I'm okay with it.  

However, come see me a couple days before the surgery.  I'll probably be drugged out of my mind on Ativan so I don't freak out.

Double Mastectomy

I had the follow-up appointment with my breast surgeon today.  It's official: I am going to have a bilateral mastectomy.  The only thing that is not official yet is the surgery day.  Since I am opting to have immediate reconstruction after the bilateral mastectomy, then the plastic surgeon and the breast surgeon need to confer and schedule an OR date.  It'll be after May 20th, which is when my surgeon comes back from her vacation.  So I have over a month left with the boobs that God gave me, and then I'll spend the rest of my life with the boobs that a plastic surgeon is going to give me.

The best part of the consultation today was the odds that my surgeon gave me.  My surgeon said that a double mastectomy would reduce my risk of a new local occurrence by 95 percent.

95 percent?!?

That means I'd have less than a 5 percent chance of getting a breast cancer again (there's a slight chance of it coming back in the chest wall).  But still...

95 percent?!?!

If I had any doubts about the bilateral mastectomy, then they are all gone now.  This is the absolute best thing I can do to live a long, (hopefully) healthy life.  I am feeling confident that I will not end up like my mom, who died way too young.

The end is nigh

For my boobs, that is.  Not me.  This morning I received a call from my surgeon, which immediately sent my anxiety into a titter.  I thought her nurse would be calling me, so when I heard the surgeon's voice on the other line, I panicked pretty hard.  Oh sweet heaven, I'm dying.  She's telling me I'm dying!

Nope, I'm not dying.  My awesome surgeon wanted to explain the complicated results of the biopsies of Lefty and Sideshow Boob.  Like always, everything is okay with Lefty and Sideshow Boob is the problem one.  Effin Sideshow Boob.  She explained that I have a "hodge podge" of stuff in the right breast (of course!).  When you hear your surgeon say "hodge podge," that doesn't inspire any good feelings.  I knew as soon as she said that where the conversation was heading.

The troublesome aspect of the right breast was the presence of atypical hyperplasia.  What that means is that  the rogue cells in Sideshow Boob aren't done with me yet.  The fact that precancerous or cancer precursors, however you want to say it, are present so soon after treatment does not bode well with me or my anxiety.  

The surgeon said she wants to do a lumpectomy of the tissue, though I mentioned how another lumpectomy would just make Sideshow Boob look like a lumpy pile of supposed breast.  She said that I should consult with a plastic surgeon to discuss my options.  We did touch on a bilateral mastectomy and what my options were regarding that.  She wanted me to really think about it and explore my options before coming to the very final decision of removing both of my breasts.  

I'm leaning toward that decision.  I can't keep waiting for the bomb to drop that cancer has once again invaded my breasts.  I really think a mastectomy is the only way for me to live the rest of my life without the constant fear and anxiety that this mother effer is going to come back bigger, badder and bringing its friends (also known as mets).  My boobs have been with me for 20 years (I developed early, much to my chagrin).  I can live the rest of my life without them if that means my odds of having a long, rest of my life are greater.  

I've said it before and I will say it again, I will not die for my boobs.  No saving the tatas.  Just me.  I want to live.