My new boobs are one!
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| Me and my girls. |
Not bad, considering that two years ago I almost collapsed
in the examining room in front of my Breast Surgeon, Dr Escargot. He’d softly suggested
softly that I might want to consider a double mastectomy. The very word was
like a punch in the kneecaps. Even
with his soft Colombian accent the word ‘mastectomy’ sounded harsh and
barbaric. I remember wrapping my arms across my
chest, and glaring at him as though he was trying to steal my Halloween candy.
Months later, in an effort to ‘gather information’ I met
with my Plastic Surgeon. I cried in front of him too. Dutch accent this time,
which made the word ‘mastectomy’ sound a little more playful, like something
you might want to do while you’re on vacation. But I had a little meltdown
anyway, and he gently assured me that I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t
want to do.
‘Wanting’ to have a mastectomy wasn’t something that really
entered the equation when it came to making the most difficult decision of my
life. What I wanted was to live a long and healthy life. Achieving that goal
meant doing everything in my power to reduce the risk of recurrence. Thus the
decision was made for me, and it had nothing to do with the fact that my
Plastic Surgeon was a hottie.
It wasn’t till two weeks after my surgery that I found the
courage to look at my new breasts. The thought of boobs without nipples was
just too weird for me. In my strong moments I thought of them as Barbie Boobs,
but the fact is that Barbie doesn’t have scars the size of a peppermint patty
where the nipple-age used to be.
For three months there was no bra. Just two big soft spongy
marshmallows supported by a camisole. They did their own thing, and I did mine.
It’s’ as though we co-existed in the same shirt, without really having any
connection. They were just like having a new pet. I washed them, massaged them,
and took them to the vet doctor. They were the fist thing I thought
about in the morning, and the last thing I thought about before I went to
sleep.
For six months I couldn’t wear bras with under wire. In fact
I couldn’t wear any of my old bras at all. Although my noobs were created by using
my original skin envelopes, the shape is only almost sort of the same. Lefty is
close to perfect, but right is a little bit squishy – as though it spend some
time in a George Foreman Grill. But a good bra makes everything better, and I’ve
found some soft ones that work just fine.
Twelve months later and they feel like mine, even though
they’re not completely finished. They jiggle in all the right places, and fit
comfortably into my familiar 36 C’s. Apart from a few radiation tattoos and a shark
bite across my tummy, as well as the scars on my boobs, you’d never even guess
I’d had cancer. Clothed, anyway.
But here’s something I do that I never got to do with my old
girls. Stare at them. Sometimes in disbelief and sometimes in amazement. How is
this even possible? How do they rebuild a pair of breasts? Then without realizing it, I’m running
my hand over one of the small mounds, just making sure it is there.
In private – it’s totally different. Alone they get the full
massage treatment, with oils and other yummy things. Soon they may have
acupuncture, because a woman I know promises that in doing so, the heat will be
released and the scars will heal even further.
Occasionally I miss my old body. Some woman say they don’t
miss their old breasts, reasoning that ‘they tried to kill me’. But I feel that
my old boobs were innocent victims, and I loved them till the end.
But the new are more than welcome, and sometimes the thought
of how fresh they are makes me positively gleeful. And they’ve just turned one.
Happy birthday to us!
