A Journey Through Change: Breast Cancer Surgery and Survival

From age ten to forty-eight, breasts were my defining feature, overpowering my 5'3" frame and arriving in a room a full two seconds before I did. I tried knocking them back, but they kept growing. I had a reduction at 29, only to see them expand again with pregnancy. A “geriatric” pregnancy at 37 brought further growth, leading to a second reduction. Finally, at a reduced 36DDD, I could walk without a bra, roll over in bed without thinking about placement, and feel a semblance of control over my body.

There is an implication that our bodies go through changes at puberty and then we are settled into our adult form. This is a lie. Our bodies are always changing. In what way is rarely up to us to decide. Even with the benefit of modern medical science and plastic surgery, my body likes to make a mockery of my plans.

For example, we were planning to move from the west coast to the east coast and I was due for a mammogram. Although I wanted to skip it because I was busy and low risk (no BRCA gene, no history of breast cancer in my family, great lifestyle habits, etc.), I went. The hum of the machine mashing my breasts was at least easier now that they were smaller. A friend in grade school had dubbed mine Edna and Bernice.

The day after the scan I received a phone call that my biopsy was scheduled at the nearby hospital for the next day. This was my first indication that something was not going to be routine. The radiologist who examined my right breast started with the good news, "Well, it looks like it hasn't reached your lymph nodes." and then he said, "The right breast will have to be removed though. There are two tumors, and I don't think you'll be able to keep it." Her. That's Edna he was talking about. The "pretty sister".

Now that Edna had to go, I decided that Bernice would have to go, too. In fact, I threw a Thanks for the Mammaries going away party and asked people to come in boob-themed costumes. The party served as a public service announcement as many of the guests were reminded to get screened. Three of them found cancer, but at least they found it early.

My own tissues were sent to a lab, and I was given the official diagnosis: stage 3 and estrogen positive. I would have to block all feminizing hormones to prevent future regrowth. Again, an image of nature out of balance.

When children draw a woman, they might draw a stick figure but they'll give her long hair, long eyelashes, and large boobs. I was going to lose my hair from chemo and the defining characteristic of my life. Is that a girl or a boy? Actually, that’s a middle-aged mom enduring chemically-induced sudden menopause. Try her patience and you will regret it.

I kept my nipples. The plastic surgeon put them aside to reaattach after the surgeon removed the breasts. I reflected on the fact that this was their third time on vacation away from my body. Even now, they're strangers to me. No longer an erogenous zone but a mere graft, they cause pain instead of pleasure as they heal. One factor I had not expected was that with previously large cans my nipples were far away; at my largest they were almost down by my belly button. With the new flat chest and graft placement, my nipples felt to me like they were on my neck or my shoulders. So high up and close to face! It's taken over a year to get used to that.

I moved during chemo. My luggage was minimal: the rest of my chemo meds, IDs, and a freezer pack to keep the medications cold. I unpacked at my new home. Arduously. I alarmed the new neighbors when I introduced myself. They thought I was dying. Another irony: when my breasts were actually killing me I looked and felt perfectly healthy.

Next up, total hysterectomy and oophorectomy. My body an ever-changing landscape.

This piece reflects the author’s personal experience and perspective. For medical advice, please consult your health care provider.

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