Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Crayons and Tears: My Breast Cancer Diagnosis
I shall never forget the heavy and humorous circumstances surrounding my second, and hopefully final breast cancer diagnosis.
On a beutiful day in May of 2003, I drove with my precocious 1-year-old daughter to the office of Breast Surgeon Dr. Yvedt Matory at Brigham and Women's Hospital in Boston. A few weeks prior, I had undergone an excisional breast biopsy of a suspicious mass. Despite having had early breast cancer removed from the same breast just 4 years prior, I approached this appointment with confidence. I'd had two other breast lumps biopsied in the two years prior, both of which had been benign (non-cancerous), and expected this news to be the same. So, when both my husband and mom offered to come with me to this spring 2003 appointment, at which I was to have the biopsy incision checked and receive pathology results, I incessantly declined their offers. "I'll be fine!" I very stubbornly insisted. I suppose, in hindsight, I had taken my optimism a bit too far.
The long drive into Boston for that appointment was lovely. I remember it well. My toddler daughter Victoria and I sang nursery rhymes along the ride. Having had very early breast cancer 4 years before and, therefore, being at elevated risk, I truly treasured and celebrated out loud the fleeting, rhyme-singing days of motherhood. Victoria was (and remains) innately musical/artistic. We arrived on time, but, as usual, were stuck in a crowded waiting room for over an hour. Still, my cherub sang on, much to the delight (for some, annoyance) of our fellow "waiters".
I (we) were finally called in to the exam room, with its sterile aroma, crinkly exam-room tissue, single magazine, and muffled calcaphony of bustle and voices. We were way past nap time now, my cheerful toddler growing restless in the confines of the blank blah-beige walls. Ahh..those blank walls. We were two minds with nothing to occupy us while waiting for the familiar chart retreival from the door bin, click of the door handle, and appearance of our beloved Dr. Matory. My toddler wriggled in my lap, bored of the magazine we looked at, and getting generally "antsy". I recalled the crayons and paper I had in my mom-bag-o-tricks. Thank you Crayola! My little Picasso got earnestly to work.
I have a way with people, tending to easily establish meaningful connections. Such was the case with Dr. Matory; we shared an interest in music, education, patient communications, and had children of similar ages. (Dr. Yvedt Matory has since sadly passed away, a young victim of skin cancer). Despite having a ridiculous overload of patients, as is the case for surgeons at most of Boston's teaching hospitals, I do believe that she had a particular love for me. In the years ensuing my first cancer, what I perceived as Dr. Matory's personal interest in my well-being inspired my faith and helped allay my cancer recurrence fears.
As Dr. Matory entered the door that fateful day, her demeanor was different than what I had ever before experienced. Strained emotion showed on her cocoa colored face, and a serious furrow appeared between her beautiful deep brown eyes. "Hello Donna," she said. Hmm. No gregarious smile? No quick interest in the progress of my adorable attention-craving baby girl? "She looks really tired," I recall thinking about Dr. Matory. In the years since I had been seeing her for cancer follow-up appointments, every 3-6 months, she had shared with me the difficulties of finding balance - being a top surgeon, and being a commited, involved mom. Tired. Yes, that's why the long face. She's tired. "We have some things to talk about," were her next words.
So, I pulled up a chair next to her, as we reviewed the biopsy results. Me with a polite smile on my face, legs crossed, sitting up straight, listening intently. What followed was a bit of a teacher-from-Charlie-Brown experience, with just random words bouncing around in the frozen parts of my brain. "We found more cancer....waaaa.waaaa.waaaa." "Invasive, aggressive.....waaa...waaaa" "Mastectomies...waaaaa..chemo...waaaa...radiation...waa,waa,waa,waaaaaaaa." And still, I smiled politely, nodded, cheerfully agreed to make the necessary appointments with the secretary for more surgery and medical consults, etc. "Wow, you are handling this very well!" Dr. Matory added. More polite smiles.
I was not truly able to process what I was hearing. By that point she may as well have been speaking to an alien going through programmed responses, but not really emoting. I was like "Data" from Star Trek. My intellegent, multi-dimensional neural network suffered complete gridlock. Only one brain path stayed open for processing; the one that deals with just basic functioning and survival. It was all so surreal.
And then something happened that I will never forget. We both turned around, Dr. Matory and I. Those boring walls? The ones that drive patients crazy with their blankness? Well, my 18-month-old Picasso had found a perfect canvas, and outlet for her boredom!! The walls now featured my daughter's first-ever "public showing" of her budding artisitc talent! God works in some very strange ways indeed. No more boring walls, a distraction for both physician and patient, a happy toddler, and a well-timed moment of comic relief shared by two working moms - all provided at once by my darling daughter in my moment of need. "Oh my!" I exclaimed with raised eyebrows. "Don't worry about it," said Dr. Matory as we smiled at eachother.
What happened next? I remember making some appointments, leaving the hospital, securing Victoria in her car seat (where she promptly fell asleep), and driving down Memorial Drive, along Boston's Charles River, bound for home. At some point, the neurons were released from their bondage, my brain turned back on, and....the dam of emotions broke. About mid-way down Memorial Drive, I started sobbing like I have never sobbed before. I realized the impact all this would have on my husband, 6-year-old son, mom and dad, brothers, and all those that love me, and dreaded sharing the news. I pulled over in a random Cambridge parking lot, unable to see beyond my tears. Looking back at my precious sleeping daughter snug in her carseat, and with her whole wonderful life ahead of her, I resolved to fight the ugly cancer monster again and win. I would be there to watch my son and daughter grow up and add their own unique "Crayola colors" to this wonderful world.
Seven years, lots of beautiful "artwork", and many great memories later, I'm thriving, happy, and blessed in so many ways.
On a beutiful day in May of 2003, I drove with my precocious 1-year-old daughter to the office of Breast Surgeon Dr. Yvedt Matory at Brigham and Women's Hospital in Boston. A few weeks prior, I had undergone an excisional breast biopsy of a suspicious mass. Despite having had early breast cancer removed from the same breast just 4 years prior, I approached this appointment with confidence. I'd had two other breast lumps biopsied in the two years prior, both of which had been benign (non-cancerous), and expected this news to be the same. So, when both my husband and mom offered to come with me to this spring 2003 appointment, at which I was to have the biopsy incision checked and receive pathology results, I incessantly declined their offers. "I'll be fine!" I very stubbornly insisted. I suppose, in hindsight, I had taken my optimism a bit too far.
The long drive into Boston for that appointment was lovely. I remember it well. My toddler daughter Victoria and I sang nursery rhymes along the ride. Having had very early breast cancer 4 years before and, therefore, being at elevated risk, I truly treasured and celebrated out loud the fleeting, rhyme-singing days of motherhood. Victoria was (and remains) innately musical/artistic. We arrived on time, but, as usual, were stuck in a crowded waiting room for over an hour. Still, my cherub sang on, much to the delight (for some, annoyance) of our fellow "waiters".
I (we) were finally called in to the exam room, with its sterile aroma, crinkly exam-room tissue, single magazine, and muffled calcaphony of bustle and voices. We were way past nap time now, my cheerful toddler growing restless in the confines of the blank blah-beige walls. Ahh..those blank walls. We were two minds with nothing to occupy us while waiting for the familiar chart retreival from the door bin, click of the door handle, and appearance of our beloved Dr. Matory. My toddler wriggled in my lap, bored of the magazine we looked at, and getting generally "antsy". I recalled the crayons and paper I had in my mom-bag-o-tricks. Thank you Crayola! My little Picasso got earnestly to work.
I have a way with people, tending to easily establish meaningful connections. Such was the case with Dr. Matory; we shared an interest in music, education, patient communications, and had children of similar ages. (Dr. Yvedt Matory has since sadly passed away, a young victim of skin cancer). Despite having a ridiculous overload of patients, as is the case for surgeons at most of Boston's teaching hospitals, I do believe that she had a particular love for me. In the years ensuing my first cancer, what I perceived as Dr. Matory's personal interest in my well-being inspired my faith and helped allay my cancer recurrence fears.
As Dr. Matory entered the door that fateful day, her demeanor was different than what I had ever before experienced. Strained emotion showed on her cocoa colored face, and a serious furrow appeared between her beautiful deep brown eyes. "Hello Donna," she said. Hmm. No gregarious smile? No quick interest in the progress of my adorable attention-craving baby girl? "She looks really tired," I recall thinking about Dr. Matory. In the years since I had been seeing her for cancer follow-up appointments, every 3-6 months, she had shared with me the difficulties of finding balance - being a top surgeon, and being a commited, involved mom. Tired. Yes, that's why the long face. She's tired. "We have some things to talk about," were her next words.
So, I pulled up a chair next to her, as we reviewed the biopsy results. Me with a polite smile on my face, legs crossed, sitting up straight, listening intently. What followed was a bit of a teacher-from-Charlie-Brown experience, with just random words bouncing around in the frozen parts of my brain. "We found more cancer....waaaa.waaaa.waaaa." "Invasive, aggressive.....waaa...waaaa" "Mastectomies...waaaaa..chemo...waaaa...radiation...waa,waa,waa,waaaaaaaa." And still, I smiled politely, nodded, cheerfully agreed to make the necessary appointments with the secretary for more surgery and medical consults, etc. "Wow, you are handling this very well!" Dr. Matory added. More polite smiles.
I was not truly able to process what I was hearing. By that point she may as well have been speaking to an alien going through programmed responses, but not really emoting. I was like "Data" from Star Trek. My intellegent, multi-dimensional neural network suffered complete gridlock. Only one brain path stayed open for processing; the one that deals with just basic functioning and survival. It was all so surreal.
And then something happened that I will never forget. We both turned around, Dr. Matory and I. Those boring walls? The ones that drive patients crazy with their blankness? Well, my 18-month-old Picasso had found a perfect canvas, and outlet for her boredom!! The walls now featured my daughter's first-ever "public showing" of her budding artisitc talent! God works in some very strange ways indeed. No more boring walls, a distraction for both physician and patient, a happy toddler, and a well-timed moment of comic relief shared by two working moms - all provided at once by my darling daughter in my moment of need. "Oh my!" I exclaimed with raised eyebrows. "Don't worry about it," said Dr. Matory as we smiled at eachother.
What happened next? I remember making some appointments, leaving the hospital, securing Victoria in her car seat (where she promptly fell asleep), and driving down Memorial Drive, along Boston's Charles River, bound for home. At some point, the neurons were released from their bondage, my brain turned back on, and....the dam of emotions broke. About mid-way down Memorial Drive, I started sobbing like I have never sobbed before. I realized the impact all this would have on my husband, 6-year-old son, mom and dad, brothers, and all those that love me, and dreaded sharing the news. I pulled over in a random Cambridge parking lot, unable to see beyond my tears. Looking back at my precious sleeping daughter snug in her carseat, and with her whole wonderful life ahead of her, I resolved to fight the ugly cancer monster again and win. I would be there to watch my son and daughter grow up and add their own unique "Crayola colors" to this wonderful world.
Seven years, lots of beautiful "artwork", and many great memories later, I'm thriving, happy, and blessed in so many ways.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Pink pot scrubbers and buckets-for-the-cure
Breast cancer is big business in America. No, I am not being cynical, jaded, overly critical. We all want "the cure" to be found. It's just that the ubiquitous bubble-gum-pink "ribbon" is so darn prevalent, so pervasive, there is no escaping it. It's in the supermarkets, throughout magazine ads, on apparel - a thick fog of "pink soup". As a breast cancer survivor, I find this both fascinating and appalling. As a marketing specialist, I find it interesting that corporate decision makers fail to realize the potentially deafening effect of pink ribbon noise.
I have a few problems with the pink ribbon conundrum. First, breast cancer is not the only disease that takes lives. It's hard not to respect famous grieving sisters raising billions for "the cure". I want to point out, however, that many people suffer and die from lung, colon, ovarian, and uterine cancers as well. In some ways, the pink-ness draws attention and resources away from these cancer types. Second, too many companies are too quick to "slap the ribbon on the container" with only a shallow understanding of the various breast cancer support organizations. These organizations vary widely in how they ACTUALLY benefit real people struggling with the disease, and in how the funds managed specifically benefit productive research. (My favorite is the Avon Foundation for Women/Avon Breast Cancer Crusade, which supports specific, tracked research, access to disease screening, AND real patient support.)
Lastly, and speaking on behalf of thousands like me, the visual assault of pink breast cancer ribbons has the potential to negatively impact quality of life - for survivors trying to move on, for those traumatized by the loss of a loved one, and thousands that justifiably live in fear of developing the disease.
So, what "inspired" me to share these thoughts today? Me, the breast cancer activist, fundraiser, counselor, and crusader? A friend recently gifted me with a pink "pot scrubber for the cure". A pot scrubber for the cure? The gift, a sweet gesture, was intended as proof by this individual that "See. I support you and the cause." Under other circumstances, a pot scrubber would not be deemed an appropriate "friendship" gift, would it? But, alas, it was..pink! Corporations use the same mentality as my dear friend. "See? We care! See the little ribbon on our product? It makes our company somehow worthy of your "friendship", somehow demonstratively "good."" Ugh.
Then, I saw the new Kentucky Fried Chicken ad, announcing the "buckets for the cure" program. What! No! Not the KFC bucket!!! Is there no end to the pinkness? Please, KFC. Don't just tell me you care. Tell me why! Tell me how you believe the money you'll donate per bucket purchased will really HELP, beyond adding to the coffers of an already ENORMOUS mega-charity. Put your creative team to work on that! I have to believe, with their combined salaries, that they are capable of more.
Lest I sound ungrateful for all the research that will hopefully spare my daughter and son from the suffering caused by breast cancer, I must add that breast cancer awareness, done right, really does save lives. The research for breast cancer cures will shed light on other diseases, as well. And, some charities make All the difference to individual patients and their families. I celebrate my survival every day, made possible in part by the pharmaceutical industry and improved chemo drugs. But, I know I am not alone in hoping for the pink bubble to deflate, please, just a bit.
I have a few problems with the pink ribbon conundrum. First, breast cancer is not the only disease that takes lives. It's hard not to respect famous grieving sisters raising billions for "the cure". I want to point out, however, that many people suffer and die from lung, colon, ovarian, and uterine cancers as well. In some ways, the pink-ness draws attention and resources away from these cancer types. Second, too many companies are too quick to "slap the ribbon on the container" with only a shallow understanding of the various breast cancer support organizations. These organizations vary widely in how they ACTUALLY benefit real people struggling with the disease, and in how the funds managed specifically benefit productive research. (My favorite is the Avon Foundation for Women/Avon Breast Cancer Crusade, which supports specific, tracked research, access to disease screening, AND real patient support.)
Lastly, and speaking on behalf of thousands like me, the visual assault of pink breast cancer ribbons has the potential to negatively impact quality of life - for survivors trying to move on, for those traumatized by the loss of a loved one, and thousands that justifiably live in fear of developing the disease.
So, what "inspired" me to share these thoughts today? Me, the breast cancer activist, fundraiser, counselor, and crusader? A friend recently gifted me with a pink "pot scrubber for the cure". A pot scrubber for the cure? The gift, a sweet gesture, was intended as proof by this individual that "See. I support you and the cause." Under other circumstances, a pot scrubber would not be deemed an appropriate "friendship" gift, would it? But, alas, it was..pink! Corporations use the same mentality as my dear friend. "See? We care! See the little ribbon on our product? It makes our company somehow worthy of your "friendship", somehow demonstratively "good."" Ugh.
Then, I saw the new Kentucky Fried Chicken ad, announcing the "buckets for the cure" program. What! No! Not the KFC bucket!!! Is there no end to the pinkness? Please, KFC. Don't just tell me you care. Tell me why! Tell me how you believe the money you'll donate per bucket purchased will really HELP, beyond adding to the coffers of an already ENORMOUS mega-charity. Put your creative team to work on that! I have to believe, with their combined salaries, that they are capable of more.
Lest I sound ungrateful for all the research that will hopefully spare my daughter and son from the suffering caused by breast cancer, I must add that breast cancer awareness, done right, really does save lives. The research for breast cancer cures will shed light on other diseases, as well. And, some charities make All the difference to individual patients and their families. I celebrate my survival every day, made possible in part by the pharmaceutical industry and improved chemo drugs. But, I know I am not alone in hoping for the pink bubble to deflate, please, just a bit.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
One candle can light the dark
Two years ago, as I have previously described, I was "restored" to my pre-cancer self. My breast reconstruction repaired the amputation that saved my life. When I woke up from my reconstruction surgery and, in the prone position of my hospital bed, could not see my feet past my reconstructed (albeit swollen) breasts - I was elated! Giddy! I had entered Faulkner Hospital in Boston early that morning as a "two-dimensional woman-boy", and went home two days later a re-blossomed woman.
Upon my arrival home, the first thing I did was to ascend the stairs to my bedroom, reach into my closet, and slip into a strapless dress that I had not been able to wear. ( I shall describe this humorous umoment in a later blog.) A few weeks later, the healing well under way and the pain subsiding, I began to fully and completely realize the lift that this corrective surgery provided to me and those I love. The depression I was unaware I had suffered was gone. As a result, I felt energized, full of new possibility, and more confident in my wellness. The train was put back on the tracks, the world again my "oyster".
Wanting the same restorative opportunity for others, I began to contemplate the lack of information that had been available to me prior to my surgery. As much as they were physical, the scars from my mastectomies were even more emotional. I knew first hand how so many women like me suffered the emotional consequences of breast loss, and wanted to help every one achieve restoration. I began researching, speaking with my doctors, phoning LifeCell (makers of AlloDerm used in my reconstruction), and surveying breast cancer groups. A deeply involved activist and breast cancer fundraiser for the prior eight years, why had I NEVER heard about the AlloDerm option? I made up my mind I would, I MUST, work to change that, to fill the information void. Thank goodness for my supportive and patient family and friends. This endeavor has compelled me for the past few years like a ninja on caffeine. Weird analogy, huh?
I learned that the AlloDerm*/implant reconstruction technique (*also referred to by some as supplemental tissue, donor tissue matrix, and acellular dermal matrix) had been conceived many years prior. I became enraged that this procedural option was available all while those like me suffered. I discovered that this surgery was virtually unknown outside closed plastic surgery communities. To me, this was tantamount to a sin of ommission, a violation of women's rights! Thousands of women, I realized, were making half-informed decisions regarding breast cancer treatment, surgery, and reconstruction. A champion of others from the day I was born (both a blessing and a curse), I turned my anger into action, starting an impassioned crusade to raise awareness. I mapped out a strategic communications plan targeted to reach entities I beleived could help spread the word - breast cancer communities, medical and social work groups that serve as health contact points for women, local and national media.........
The attached clip is one result. Reporter Jennifer Vaughn, a true champion herself of the breast cancer cause, was equally upset that our interview was the first time she had heard of this option! I knowingly sacrificed my privacy to make these communications opportunities happen. There is no time now for regret. My privacy seemed a small price to pay for a better fate for so many others.
What I learned, what my children experienced through my actions (one of life's most valuable lessons), and what I hope to inspire with this blog entry, is this phrase I entered in my high school yearbook way back when.....ONE PERSON CAN LIGHT A CANDLE IN THE DARK!!! All it takes - a belief that truth prevails, a willingness to boldly act, and a passion to never give up.
The attached video is an example of how one person can instigate change, how information leads to empowerment, and how that informed empowerment can affect the lives of others.
Woman Seeks To Spread Message To Others
2 min 23 sec - Nov 18, 2009
for reconstruction, but her search to restore her body to what it once was has finally paid off. ... Donna Bramante Indelicato breast cancer AlloDerm ...
www.youtube.com/watch?v=SijIP5aTnFo
Upon my arrival home, the first thing I did was to ascend the stairs to my bedroom, reach into my closet, and slip into a strapless dress that I had not been able to wear. ( I shall describe this humorous umoment in a later blog.) A few weeks later, the healing well under way and the pain subsiding, I began to fully and completely realize the lift that this corrective surgery provided to me and those I love. The depression I was unaware I had suffered was gone. As a result, I felt energized, full of new possibility, and more confident in my wellness. The train was put back on the tracks, the world again my "oyster".
Wanting the same restorative opportunity for others, I began to contemplate the lack of information that had been available to me prior to my surgery. As much as they were physical, the scars from my mastectomies were even more emotional. I knew first hand how so many women like me suffered the emotional consequences of breast loss, and wanted to help every one achieve restoration. I began researching, speaking with my doctors, phoning LifeCell (makers of AlloDerm used in my reconstruction), and surveying breast cancer groups. A deeply involved activist and breast cancer fundraiser for the prior eight years, why had I NEVER heard about the AlloDerm option? I made up my mind I would, I MUST, work to change that, to fill the information void. Thank goodness for my supportive and patient family and friends. This endeavor has compelled me for the past few years like a ninja on caffeine. Weird analogy, huh?
I learned that the AlloDerm*/implant reconstruction technique (*also referred to by some as supplemental tissue, donor tissue matrix, and acellular dermal matrix) had been conceived many years prior. I became enraged that this procedural option was available all while those like me suffered. I discovered that this surgery was virtually unknown outside closed plastic surgery communities. To me, this was tantamount to a sin of ommission, a violation of women's rights! Thousands of women, I realized, were making half-informed decisions regarding breast cancer treatment, surgery, and reconstruction. A champion of others from the day I was born (both a blessing and a curse), I turned my anger into action, starting an impassioned crusade to raise awareness. I mapped out a strategic communications plan targeted to reach entities I beleived could help spread the word - breast cancer communities, medical and social work groups that serve as health contact points for women, local and national media.........
The attached clip is one result. Reporter Jennifer Vaughn, a true champion herself of the breast cancer cause, was equally upset that our interview was the first time she had heard of this option! I knowingly sacrificed my privacy to make these communications opportunities happen. There is no time now for regret. My privacy seemed a small price to pay for a better fate for so many others.
What I learned, what my children experienced through my actions (one of life's most valuable lessons), and what I hope to inspire with this blog entry, is this phrase I entered in my high school yearbook way back when.....ONE PERSON CAN LIGHT A CANDLE IN THE DARK!!! All it takes - a belief that truth prevails, a willingness to boldly act, and a passion to never give up.
The attached video is an example of how one person can instigate change, how information leads to empowerment, and how that informed empowerment can affect the lives of others.
Woman Seeks To Spread Message To Others
2 min 23 sec - Nov 18, 2009
for reconstruction, but her search to restore her body to what it once was has finally paid off. ... Donna Bramante Indelicato breast cancer AlloDerm ...
www.youtube.com/watch?v=SijIP5aTnFo
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
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!
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 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.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
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".
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