I originally started this blog as a way to cope and organize my thoughts, not really expecting anyone to read it or care, but it seems like a lot of people are really enjoying my posts! I was trying to tell people individually and at my own pace, but Facebook spilled the beans about my battle with the Big C after I posted the news to a group I’m a part of, so thanks a lot for that, Mark Zuckerberg. Anyway, it really makes me happy to hear that people are reading along. I hope that if you or somebody you love has to go through this nightmare someday, this blog can help you and show you that this disease doesn’t have to be all about crying and pity parties. I did plenty of that, but at the end of the day, feeling sorry for yourself doesn’t cure cancer. Might as well laugh about it.
It’s been a busy morning on the cancer front. Since I have decided on a total mastectomy (F–K YOU, CANCER! I SHOW NO MERCY!), I had an 8am meeting with the plastic surgeon to discuss my options for reconstruction. Luckily, I’m a great candidate for an immediate reconstruction using tissue expanders and eventually implants. There’s another option, where they reconstruct your breasts using fat from other places on your body, but the surgeon took one look at me and told me I just didn’t have enough chub for that. Don’t worry though, I’m working on it. Eating caramel corn as I type.
So, immediate reconstruction means that when the oncological surgeon goes in and hacks off my real, evil boobies, the plastic surgeon will be right behind him, creating a little pocket for an implant and preparing me for my brand new hooters. I’ll actually only have to go about two or three weeks with a totally flat chest (well, slightly flatter than normal), which is kind of nice, since for some reason I was imagining living years as The Boobless Wonder.
As a size 30A, I’ve imagined plenty of times what it might be like if one day I got implants. I thought about how fun it would be to customize my breast size and finally wind up with a womanly, sexy shape instead of looking like a prepubescent boy on his way to gym class, where he’s gonna get beat up by the jocks and probably shoved in his locker and/or given a swirlie. (Did I take that too far? Whatever. Cancer card.) Fortunately, although the experience was dampened by that whole “you have cancer and we’re gonna cut off your breasts and rip out your lymph nodes” thing, it was still just as exciting as I pictured when the surgeon told me I could go as big as I want. Full B, here I come! Fun fact, they actually don’t even make implants as small as my real boobs.
I’ve done plenty of complaining about being so petite, but truth be told, my 30As might have saved my life. It’s unusual to catch a breast lump by self-examination when it’s less than 2 centimeters (mine’s 1.4cm), but because I have so little breast tissue and body fat, mine was easy to spot. Plus, my mastectomy will be a lot less traumatic than some women’s, for a number of reasons. First, I just don’t have to lose that much tissue. Second, my sexuality and sense of femininity has never been very wrapped up in my breasts, so emotionally, I’m not too distressed about saying bye-bye to them. The thing that makes the saddest is that I’ll never be able to breastfeed my future children. Although that gets me down, it’s more important that I get out of this alive and cancer-free before I start thinking about kiddos. Gotta look out for number one.