True confession – one of my first thoughts upon being
diagnosed with stage two invasive breast cancer was, “I’m going to get skinny
from being sick from chemo – winning!” Ok so I wasn’t rejoicing at the thought
of a bilateral mastectomy and aggressive chemotherapy and baldness, but weight loss was one
of my first thoughts. I mean, of course
I was stressed that I could die and worried my kids would grow up motherless. After
all, I’m not a monster- just an eternal optimist who looks for silver linings. But
guess what else? That stress and worry magically wiped away fifteen pounds in
under two weeks. While I wasn’t seriously overweight or anything, I was in my
thirties and, after two kids, had fifteen pounds to spare so it wasn’t like the
quick loss left me emaciated or anything. Dammit.
Anyway, upon consulting with my plastic surgeon about
reconstruction options, the obvious to me being implants, he described another
type of surgery known as the TRAM-flap procedure. This involves taking fat from
my stomach and rerouting it to my breasts for a more natural reconstruction. Sounded
overly complicated as well as a much tougher recovery, but guess what? As Dr. R
patted my (now concave) stomach he declared, “I don’t think you have enough
tissue for that procedure.” Don’t you
mean not enough FAT? I wanted to shout with glee. Not having enough fat has
never been a problem for me. I blithely
selected saline implants from a catalog, already nicknaming them my “Baywatch
boobs” and looking forward to downsizing from my overflowing double D’s to a
Madonna-sized C cup.
After my mastectomy and initial reconstruction was complete, I
had to find an oncologist to treat my cancer since it had metastasized to my
lymph nodes. I cheered myself going into these chemo consults by imagining my
cancer-chic cheekbones and bony ribs a la Kate Moss. “Don’t be jealous of these cheekbones,
bitches! I had to suffer for them,” I would tell my imaginary fans. Because the
chemo I was prescribed was extremely harsh and my veins always difficult to
access, I needed a port catheter surgically implanted through which the poison
could flow more easily into a high traffic vein. At this consult the surgeon
explained where the catheter could go. Near my clavicle was one option, though
it leaves a small scar and looks like the head of a stethoscope under your skin
while it’s in there. He explained that the thigh is another option and less
visible. As I sat on the table he began to squeeze down my thigh with his thumb
and fingers, moving dangerously toward that sweet spot at the top of my knee
which, regardless of circumstance, makes me chortle like the Pillsbury Dough
Boy. My dad used to do that to me all the time. Before hitting the giggle
point, though, he said, and I quote, “Your thigh is too thin for that procedure.”
So distracted was I by hearing that I’m too
thin for something that I missed the rest of the explanation and danced out
to my car forgetting my copay.
I enjoyed the heck out of my fifteen minutes of thin fame,
but all good things end. The concoction of poison infused into me also had
steroids and – are you sitting down? – appetite stimulants to counteract the
nausea! I begged the nurses to take that part out and replace it with top shelf
hallucinogens but it’s all premixed into a big chemical stew and there’s no
getting around it. Soon I had packed on a whopping twenty pounds despite being
violently ill the first few days after each treatment. No cancer-chic
cheekbones for this girl. Dammit. Now I was fat, bald, and my reconstruction was
only partially complete so I didn’t even have my Baywatch boobs.
I still found silver linings,
though. Because my resistance to infection was so low, I was not able to work
and got to be a stay-at-home mom for the first time other than maternity
leaves. My kids were too young to be bothered by my bald head in a ball cap and
enjoyed my expensive wig for dress-up. Friends with whom I’d lost touch
reconnected and I discovered the immeasurable kindness of my colleagues, family
and neighbors. The weight eventually came off and I save hundreds of dollars
not buying bras anymore. I now wear all sorts of little tops I never could.
Best of all, cancer taught me that I’m tougher and more resilient than I imagined
and gave me the courage to leave an unhappy marriage and make positive changes
in my life. I may not have the cheekbones of a supermodel but I continue to
find silver linings every day.
