Ruffles and Roses and Life Without Breasts

Having survived early stage breast cancer and a lumpectomy at the age of 34, I marched forward with my life.  Assured by my beloved late breast surgeon, Dr. Yvedt Matory, that the result of two consecutive surgeries had, in fact, removed all the cancer cells in my right breast, I re-boarded the train of my life, destined again for great places, wonderful vistas, and friendships along the way.  

The removal of the lower third of my small (but perky) breasts did pose some interesting challenges.  But, all in all, the cancer removal had little impact on my life.  Try getting an underwire bra to stay "under" when there's no breast "fold" to keep the wire from sliding up.  Alas, aside from the elimination of popular underwire bras from my lingerie possibilities, I rarely thought about my disfigurement.   Padded bras helped fill in the missing contour quite nicely, and, well, I still had my wonderful nipples! 

Four years later, things changed.  I discovered a lump, wound up in the operating room again, and....yada, yada, yada.....the biopsy revealed breast cancer again.  This time, the prognosis was much more grim.  (I shall describe the emotional and slightly humorous instance and circumstances of this diagnosis in a later blog.)   With infiltrating invasive breast cancer, my "choice" of having a mastetomy was clearly the best course of action.  The removal of the contra-lateral left breast was optional, but given my history, the agressiveness of my cancer, and my desire to "never have to deal with this again" I signed up for bilateral mastectomies.   This was my second time around, and I was anxious to get the *@**##!  cancer out!

Back to the operating room again at Brigham and Women's Hospital in Boston, this time for  major and literally life-saving surgery.  

On the recommendation of my surgeon, I had a consult with a plastic surgeon prior to surgery.   This, of course, SHOULD be standard practice, as all possible aesthetic outcomes should be considered before the treatment and surgery plans are devised.   Did you know that according to the American Society of Plastic Surgeons less than half of all women diagnosed with breast cancer in this country are afforded breast reconstruction information?  Unacceptable!   Well, my plastic surgoen presented me with the option of having immediate breast reconstruction performed during my breast removal surgery.  I would wake up without my real breasts and with some scarring and loss of sensation, but with perfect silicone-filled substitutes. 

Well, that was not to be.

The cancer was very extensive, five underarm  lymph nodes were also cancerous, and a nasty infection had taken hold in the breast as well.  Not good.  The reconstruction was not possible.  And, a year-long treatment plan was put in place involving chemotherapy and tissue-damaging chest radiation. 

I woke up from surgery with no breasts at all.  Not a mound, not a nipple.  I was beyond just flat, with a concave contour where my lovely curves once resided.

Breastless is how I spent the next 4 1/2 years of my life. 

With the support of my family, my husband, and friends, I made the best of my LWB (life without breasts).  I approached this period of my life with humour and determination, although the smiles often hid the emotional suffering this disfigurement truly caused me.   I determined to keep wearing the same fitted styles I always enjoyed, my GAP tees, fitted sweaters and the like.

Among the many sentiments people sent me during my period of recovery, the Hallmark Fresh Ink card sent by my cousin Dolores and depicted above is my absolute favorite.  It about sums up how I felt, how my breastlessness affected my self-esteem.  She really GOT it, and that validation made me laugh hysterically (still does) and cry.   "I think the ruffle really makes a difference, don't you?"....as though the little fringe at the bottom of the bathing suit could really mask the low self-esteem obviated by the depicted woman's body language.  "I think the ruffle really makes it."  Ha.

On so many levels, I related to the cartoon on the card.  Tiny hair (that's what my then 3-year-old daughter called my newly re-growing hair after chemo), concave body, and a weirdly fitting girls bathing suit.  I think the flowers really make a difference, don't you?  Perhaps I should have chosen ruffles? (smile)

My grandmother and others, truly "ruffled" by my diagnosis,  tried to "restore" me to my former self.  I adore fitted clothing, knits, body hugging styles.  That's me.   I battled a new malady - the invasion of the ruffles!  In the years ensuing my mastectomies my closet became half-full of interesting gifts:  crazy ruffle-front shirts that look like they were taken off pirate ships, tops with "gathers" to "fill me out", crazy prints deigned to "trick the eye", and coordinating rose pins that nearly screamed out my flatness.   All well intentioned from giving folks that love me.  Did I mention I come from a gigantic extened family of Italians, Polish and Danes?  These "style tricks" could not take away the reality that a primal part of my female identity, my "curves", had been taken away.  Forever.

My life without breasts hurt in more ways than one.   Ways that one untouched by cancer might never consider.

My breasts represented many things to me:  my identity as a woman; a source of intimacy and vital physical pleasure for both me and my husband; the sentimental symbol of my breastfed babies; a certain female power that comes from atrractiveness to the opposite gender; a required contour for beautiful lingerie and clothing made for women.  All gone in a single surgery that preserved my life.

In some recent speeches I gave on the subject of breast reconstruction, I challenged every man in the audience to consider what a "comparable" loss might mean in terms of their "masculinity".   Picture lots of crossed legs and flushing faces.  The fact of the matter, and the reason for my awareness crusading, is that breast loss undermines women's well-being in ways that pervasively impact her life.   

Ruffles and roses, humorous cards, loving family and friends all helped me in their way.  But, it was the flourish, the bloom, and the joy I re-discovered in ME that helped me emotionally recover and get on with my life.  My breast reconstruction surgery helped finally put the train back on the track.

The Year of the Colorful Pants

The Year of the Colorful Pants.

I hereby designated 2010 "The Year of the Colorful Pants”.

I came by the above trio on a recent trip to a store named DELliAs, where my objective was to return a not-so-colorful Christmas gift from my husband, a “soft” and “fluffy” sweater that nearly swallowed me up. Not a shopper, I intended to accomplish the return in a matter of minutes, receive cash back, and put it to practical use. Call it an epiphany, foreshadowing, a sign from a higher power - I was actually seduced by a pile of colorful pants! Like a bee to honey. The "SALE" sign may as well have been flashing neon. In collusion, the fitting room mirror encouraged me along. A quickened heartbeat later, I exited the store as the proud owner of boldly colorful pants! It was the first week of January, and things were looking very bright.

Why on earth was I so emotionally charged by a few pairs of cotton pants? I found myself singing the whole car ride home! ("I can see clearly now, the rain has gone.....I can see all obstacles in my way................it's gonna be a bright, bright, bright, sunshiney day....)

I brought the pants home, tried them each on again, my husband serving as a very willing audience (smile). My son and daughter both looked surprised and nervous. What alien had taken their normally conservative mom and plunked down "Donna with the Amazing Technicolor Pants"? Had I made a mistake? Been intoxicated in the store by the overwhelming hue? No, no. The pants arrived in my life right on time. Life, I have learned, does put things in our path in very timely ways.

How wonderful, how metaphorical that these pants ended up in my closet, otherwise filled with tailored styles and safe, classic hues. The boldness, the infusion of color, felt like a celebration of joy for "living". These pants declare out loud what I am compelled to do - to inspire others affected by cancer to their best possible outcomes. On the days I wear them, I feel a little brighter. On the days that I wear them, sometimes consciously on days of self-doubt, I am reminded that change happens by engaging, doing, acting. "Go, girl, go," they say.

To understand how my life became color-deprived is to understand the psychological burden of breast cancer. You see, from the time I was diagnosed, a shadow hovered over me, a little dark cloud of anxiety that followed me like an unwanted friend.

For me, the bright spectrum of living did not return all at once, but in steps forward that helped me move entirely beyond a serious diagnosis to a state of normalcy. What helped me to move forward? First, the personal support of my oncology team, treating me and my family with compassion and individualized care. Then, participation in some social programs that got me thinking outside my “cancer” box. (Oncology social workers are truly unsung heroes in the universe of cancer care.) Yoga classes and a “Day of Beauty” offered at my cancer clinic, archery classes with my son, learning to play golf, playing my piano and violin - these activities helped my re-engage in "living", got me thinking forward again to a life full of possibilities. Breast cancer fundraising, advocacy and motivational speaking offered tremendous purpose to my days, delivered the rare gift of "meaning", and heralded my future.

Finally, breast reconstruction moved my post-cancer life a giant step forward, helping put the sun back high in my sky, and the color back in my rainbow.

The darkness, the draining of color from the lives of those affected by breast cancer is something I hope to address not only in this blog, but through actions and associations I hope will lead to a more holistic treatment of cancer patients. I feel compelled to help others like me move from grey back to colorful lives. Perhaps this starts with the donning of colorful pants! They certainly have inspired conversations, and dialogue is an important start.

I think I can, I think I can…life is again operating at full steam. The wheels stopped turning turning for awhile, but the engine has restarted. The schedule no longer controls me, I am the engineer. Cancer taught me that.

Yes, this is "The Year of the Colorful Pants".