The New Girls

Ever since my surgery, I have been going every where flat chested. A friend of mine who had a mastectomy years ago told me that she just wore her old bras and stuffed them with socks. And then she sent me a box of socks.   I was swollen and sore for quite a while and couldn’t even think about fastening a bra around my chest.

But it was winter and I was wearing bulky sweaters. Flat wasn’t so noticeable. Then one morning I put on a tight, V neck sweater and started to cry.  It wasn’t the flat that bothered me but the fact that my chest is still lumpy. The scars are not smooth, there are still hard pockets of fluid, and the area between my right arm pit and chest is very ropey.  I could see all this weirdness through my sweater. So I put on a bra and stuffed it with socks.  But in the mirror all I saw was my skinny, twelve year old self, so insecure about my lack of breasts that I stuffed my bra with tissues. It was the first time I felt a serious sadness and grief about having my breasts amputated.  I took off the bra and changed my sweater.

With the warm weather I realized that I would have to make a decision about clothing.  To go flat, there would just be some clothing I could not wear,  including one sexy little dress I wear to weddings.  That pissed me off so I made an appointment to be fitted with prophylactic boobs. 

After some getting to know you type questions, the women asked me "so what size do you want to be?"   Peachie, who had gone with me, thought this was my chance to go for a real big rack.  Tempting,  as it would balance out what has happened to my butt in these last few months of inactivity.   But I finally chose a standard B cup, which I've always been.
Here they are - my new girls!
 

The first day I wore them to work, I kept taking them out to show everyone.   They are weighty and  very "real" feeling.   Every boob joke in the world ensued.  The funny thing is that they are high and firm.  They are my 20 year old breasts.   It's an odd and nostalgic feeling to have them riding so high on my chest.   I may have to stand next to a heater to get them to melt a little.   But I don't think I'll wear them everyday.  I really like the freedom of being flat chested, of just throwing on a Tshirt when going to the gym or running errands or just hanging around the house.    And I get a free pair every two years, so I can do different sizes, or mix and match.   That would be fun.

I know that many friends and co-workers think I have just breezed right through the whole breast cancer thing.   But it is not true.  I have had moments of great insecurity.  Days I could not look in the mirror.  I have had many, many tears.  I have had a couple of major triggered  meltdowns.   I continue to have waves of sadness.    And now, taking hormonal drugs to reduce the risk of recurrence, I am dealing with wicked nights sweats and fatigue.   Not so much fun. 

In the cancer boutique, there was a big poster that said "Laugh 'til it Heals."   There was a time in my life when I could not laugh at all.  When humor came back to me, I realized how much laughter can heal a soul.    And personally,  I can find a lot of humor in a bunch a straight women, passing around and feeling my boobs.   I am going to get so much mileage out of this . . .

Full of Grace

1. Knowing that we missed a Broadway road production of The Jersey Boys while I was with my mom, my colleagues at work chipped in and got us new tickets.

2. And they got tickets for a night I usually have to attend a really boring meeting. And now I don’t have to go. Doubling the pleasure.

3. Peachie home for a whole week of cuddling and girl talk.

4. Our neighborhood ice cream store open for the season.   We all went to celebrate.

5. Getting through the first Sunday of my life that I didn’t talk to my mom.

Saying Goodbye

Last week my mom died. Even as I write that, it does not seem real to me. My mom, who was always, always, always there for me, is gone.

It started simply enough. She was not feeling well so my sister took her to her house. But very atypical, she asked to stay. I traveled down to visit her. She looked fine but was complaining about some weakness in her legs. She thought she had some medication imbalance, had some doctors’ appointments lined up and I came home.

I had barely put my suitcase down when my sister called and said that they had taken her to the hospital. When I arrived the following day, she was mumbling The Lord’s Prayer, over and over. I remember a day in my life I did the same and wondered if my mom was in the same state of panic I had been. I laid down next to her, held her, and cried. And then the next day, a day of agony. My mom in obvious distress, obviously scared and crying out in pain. Over and over, for hours and hours. They gave her morphine and more morphine and nothing touched it. For me it was a day of sobbing and praying and so much anger that her god would put her through this.

And then there was quiet. A massive stroke had affected both sides of her brain. There was no longer recognition. Just a gentle staring and a rhythmic but labored breathing. We made the decision, based on her request, to remove all life support. Her lungs started to fill with fluid and the breathing got more and more labored. All through the night I would sit beside her, holding her hand, and listen to her breathing. But still she hung on. We moved her to hospice.

After a few days I left to return home, needing to restock my meds and clothes. On the train I got a call. Her breathing had changed. Barely discernible. I returned to her side and then she finally passed. It’s been a long, emotional week, but not without its blessings.

• Long estranged from my brother (because of his homophobic wife) we shared a small hospital room for a week and sobbed in each other’s arms over and over again. The estrangement broke my mother’s heart. I hope she knows it’s going to be okay now.

• Sharing tears and stories with my mom’s best friend, Joy. They had been friends for more than 60 years. Everyday Joy came and shared stories. How wonderful to see my mother, as a single working girl, as a newly wed, as a young mother - all through the eyes of her best friend who was with her through it all.

• Meeting the myriad of women who came to say goodbye and tell us stories of how my mother had impacted their lives. I was bursting with pride.

• After my father died (and donated his body to a medical center) there was no wake, funeral or memorial service. I never really understood why. Now, having read my mom’s final wishes, it came to light that my parents wanted to have their memorials together. My mother also donated her body and when we receive her ashes in two years, their ashes will be buried together. Just as they wanted. Together in life. Together in death. Theirs was an amazing love story.

 

I am not sure what life will look like now. How much will I miss our regular Sunday chats? Who will I piss and moan to when Martha is driving me nuts? Who will give me parental advice when I worry about my children? Who will gently nudge me when I’ve screwed up? Who will be my biggest cheerleader when I’m on a new challenge? I am now officially an orphan and I feel an enormous void.

I know how fortunate I’ve been to have my mother in my life for as long as I have. How blessed I have been to have an inspiration and model for healthy relationships, for deep and abiding friendships, for volunteerism and citizenship. I can only hope to be a fraction of the parent/spouse/friend she was.

Saying goodbye is so fucking hard.  But remembering is so very sweet.

Bruises and Scars

It has been 2 months since my mastectomy. My body is slowing healing. The incisions are settling down and the scar tissue smoothing out. Most of the discoloration has receded and the hyper skin sensitivity has calmed down. I still have a lot of numb areas where feeling may never come back. And a few fluid filled lumps that apparently require time to dissipate. I can still feel all the skin around the incisions pulling, which is an odd but not painful sensation. If I reach too far it feels like the incisions are ripping open, movement which I try to avoid. Right in the center of my chest is a soft spot that is extremely sensitive to the slightest touch and reminds me of that soft spot on a new born baby’s head.

This is the first thing I see in the mirror every morning.

Scars. I don’t mind the scars. Scars are not painful. They are just reminders of pain. Ironically, the mastectomy removed a significant scar from the assault, one that was much harder for me to look at daily, or to explain, than these new scars.

But I have a very hard time with bruises.  For the first few weeks I looked at bruising which covered an area from my collar bone, all through my arm pit and down to my waist on one side.  It took all the strength and strategies I could muster to prevent triggering back to that assault when my body was so badly bruised and broken.  I was not always successful.  I have a picture of myself taken about a month after that attack. Still badly bruised, foot in a cast, taped up broken ribs, leaning on a cane. It’s very hard for me to look at. I still remember the pain - the physical and the far deeper emotional trauma.

Bruises hurt. Bruises are painful to touch. Tender, tender spots. Bruises can take a very long time to heal. Especially when they are on the inside.

Because of the vulnerable area in the middle of my chest, I have become very protective of it and over reactive to any possible movement toward me.  Anyone who comes near me, I instinctively cross my arms over my chest.  If someone moves to give me a hug,  I hold my arm out to slow them down and keep them at a distance until I can control the movement.  It’s a defensive behavior I had for years and it took me more years to unlearn.  I am hoping this bruise heals before the defensive response becomes permanent.  I do not like it.  I want my arms to always be open.

I keep thinking about the Melissa Etheridge song “I Run for Life” about breast cancer and her lyrics:

It's a blur since they told me about it
How the darkness had taken its toll
And they cut into my skin and they cut into my body
But they will never get a piece of my soul

I once let someone take a piece of my soul.  It has taken me decades to try to reclaim it.  Some bruises take a very long time to heal.

But they can.

And then there are just scars. Scars don’t hurt. Just the memories.

Full of Grace

1. Having my secretary's emergency rush to the hospital turn out to be a medication problem rather than the stroke/heart attack scenario we all originally thought.

2. Cortisone shots

3. Creme brûlée by candle light

4. Soft and soulful sexy time

5. A surprise visit from Beanie, just because she missed us.

And the Winner Was . . .

After meticulously cutting up identical strips of paper, writing each commenter's name on each one, and tossing them in a teacup, the winner of my Generosity Day gift was my good friend Laurie.   However, in the spirit of the occasion, she generously offered to pass it to the next person (apparently after 30+ years of friendship we have exchanged enough gifts.)  So I repeated the process, and  the new winner is Kim, which pleases me more than I can say.    And since I am not going to cut up any more scraps of paper, I will insist that she graciously accept whatever gift I come up with for her.    This will be fun.

Full of Grace - Generosity Day

Last year, Sasha Dichter, Chief Innovation Officer for Acumen Fund, converted his month-long "Generosity Experiment" into a global Generosity Day. The idea was simple: to celebrate Valentine's Day as a day of "sharing love with everyone, of being generous to everyone, to see how it feels and to practice saying “Yes.” Let’s make the day about love, action and human connection – because we can do better than smarmy greeting cards, overpriced roses, and stressed-out couples trying to create romantic meals on the fly."

Sasha suggests, "Give to people on the street. Tip outrageously. Help a stranger. Write a note telling someone how much you appreciate them. Smile. Donate (more) to a cause that means a lot to you. Take clothes to GoodWill. Share your toys (grownups and kids). Be patient with yourself and with others. Replace the toilet paper in the bathroom. All generous acts count!"

Do something generous today - anything - and leave a comment telling me about it.  Or if you don't want to share details, just say that you'll participate.   I will chose one name at random and send you something to thank you. 

Happy Generosity Day!