Today, while scrolling the vast internet, I came across a
piece of art entitled, “Anguish.” It depicted the image of a woman on her
knees, with her face bent over close to the ground. Her hands are on either
side of her face. She is sobbing into a reflection of a pool of her own tears.
It struck me like a knife. If you’re uncomfortable reading the raw and gory
details of a woman post op from a bilateral mastectomy, please don’t read
further. I tend to deal with the gnarly nature of life through the art of dark
humor and unfiltered honesty.
The first exposure to my reflection was nothing short of
alarming. Sure, I’ve seen photographs of what a woman’s chest looks like after
this kind of surgery. There is only so much preparation one can conduct until the
images are your own. I knew what to expect, physically. Emotionally? Absolutely
not. My incredible daughter and loving best friend/sister were so encouraging
and supportive. They were nothing but loving and gave words of praise. Inside my
head, a full-blown assault of shock shook through my body. I have never seen
such violence on my own body. It’s graphic. I’m slashed across the chest. My
nipples are gone. The boxy shape of the expanders replaces where my breasts
once were. The only thing recognizable in my reflection is my tattoo in between
the two boxy shapes.
These past days have been up and down. I have good days and
not so good days. I’ve had a couple of really bad ones. The pain of recovery is
thrice over. First, the pain of the surgery itself. Second, the pain of the
expanders. Finally, the pain of emotional overload. There are days I am so
intensely overwhelmed with so many thoughts and feelings that it feels like I may
explode. The mania of all of this has caused me to start anti-anxiety
medication. I feel zero remorse in that decision. If I continued to try to do
this on my own, I was going to lose my mind. So far, it seems to be helping a
lot.
The other night, I took a shower. As I was leaning over and
drying my legs, I caught a very different view of my new chest. The skin dangled
in distorted ways. I hurried to complete the process of drying and then promptly
sat down and sobbed uncontrollably. Anguish. My vocal cords rang notes I had
not sung. Guttural groans and intense wails echoed the bathroom and through the
house. Rage pulsed through my body and turned my face red and made my ears
ring. I am deformed. I am amputated. The severed nerves pulsed through my chest
searching for what was once present. I made full eye contact with my reflection
and watched as I grieved.
Cancer. I have cancer. Cancer caused this. Could I have
taken a less aggressive approach? Yes. The doctors strongly encouraged me to do
a lumpectomy and radiation. They encouraged me to take hormone blocking therapy
for five years post lumpectomy and radiation. They encouraged me to take a
longer, yet optimistic, course to treat this cancer. Years ago, I had already
made the decision to have a bilateral mastectomy given the circumstances. I have
no regrets. But shit, this is hard. I wanted to get rid of the cancer as quickly
as possible.
I am currently experiencing a very personalized version of
hell. There is very little control I have in my life right now. I’m dependent
on doctors to heal me. I’m dependent on treatment to work. I’m dependent on my
family and friends to help me recover. I’ve had to make the painful choice to
send my boys to their father to protect them from this. I’ve had to take a
timeout from the career I have worked very hard to build. I can’t drive. I can’t
use any of the vices I typically use to cope through stress. I’m raw dogging
this experience and it’s rough.
One of my biggest fears prior to surgery was the very real
potential of having to work through body dysmorphia on a level I’ve never
experienced. I’ve had body image issues my entire life. I’ve been called fat. I’ve
been told I shouldn’t wear certain things because it didn’t fit my body type. I’ve
been told I’m too skinny. I’ve been compared to bodies I could never emulate. Long
story short, I have spent the better part of the last ten years trying to be not
only ok with the body I have but love it. Having reached a space of peace with
my life so recently, only to have it completely altered, has been infuriating.
I will adjust to this. I have no doubt that I will be able
to get over this and get to a new space of acceptance. But this just might be
the hardest road yet. Because for the first time, I will be battling just Emma.
Every time I see my reflection, I try to take my time and take in the optical
illusion that is my new chest. It doesn’t feel real, but it is so very real at
the same time. I fight against the intrusive thoughts with the silver linings I
have found since diagnosis. This is temporary. These slices across my chest
will eventually drift below the reconstructed breasts. The scars will eventually
become a faded line under tattoo ink I plan to use to cover them. In the
meantime, I see violence and mashed tissue resembling that of a Ziploc bag.
Phantom static electricity vibrates through my skin where
nipples once were. I can feel the tips of them, though they are not there. I want
to relieve the tension of the pulsating nerves with touch, but I’m numb. I look
down at my body and can see straight to my lap without obstruction. I’m flat. There
is some air in the expanders that gives some kind of shape resembling a breast,
but it’s a far cry from the bust I once bore. This doesn’t feel like my body. Working
through the acceptance is going to take a long time.
I’ve been through some ridiculous trials in my life. Some of
it of my own making. Some of it is not. Nevertheless, this current chapter of
my life is proving to be on the same level of challenge as losing my sweet
Connor. While there is nothing remotely similar in physical impact, the emotional
toll is. The biggest difference today is time and experience between these two
events. I feel much more equipped to handle this. However, I am feeling such
loss that is unseen to anyone. Sure, you can physically see that my body has
changed, but there is a graphic experience happening in my head.
Throughout this journey thus far, I have felt more love than
I ever have. People have really shown up for me without asking. How in the hell
I ever thought I could do this alone is beyond me. There’s truly no way I could
have. Having my daughter literally around the corner from me has been a God
send. I am so grateful this happened now when she’s been able to help me out.
She’s been instrumental in my sanity. She’s made the absolute best
recommendations and has provided me emotional and comical relief. The first
week after surgery, I had my chosen sister staying with me and her compassion wrapped
me up like the warmest, tightest hug. My brother is here with me now and it
makes me tear up just thinking about how amazing it is that he is here. Next
week my best friend will be here to help me out as well. Love. I am loved and I
feel it.
I have been blessed with the gift of friendship both long
distance and local. An old friend from junior high lives here and we have
become closer friends through this. I am so grateful for her. There are a few
who check in on me daily and let me rant until I am done. There are so many
blessings already received through this trauma. I see them. I feel them. I need
every single one of them.
In all honesty, I don’t know how to get through challenges
anymore without focusing on the outcome and the benefit. I’m grateful for that
state of mind. It is certainly a tool I require to keep me from succumbing to
the depression banging at the door. I’m a mere inconvenience away from curling
into a ball and just losing it. At the same time, there is space to be given to
the negative emotions I am truly entitled to express. My entire world was
flipped upside down. It’s going to take me a little while to regain my balance
and put everything back where it belongs. For now, I’m allowing some time to
feel this anguish. This depression is warranted and deserves a stage. I’m confident
in my ability to rein it in when it’s time.
Recovering from this has merely begun. There are still
months of this ahead. Even without potential chemotherapy, the reconstruction
of my breasts is going to take a few months. If you’re wondering if I’m ok, I’m
not. But I will be. Everything just changed and there’s still so much more
going on than what I’ve shared. What no one tells you about dealing with cancer
is how isolating it is and how much of the battle is waged in your own head. This
is hard. Very hard.
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