Reconstruct...take two.

 

(Warning...graphic post op images ahead.)

 

 

It's done.

My final surgery is complete.

 

I woke Friday morning feeling anxious. Everything irritated me and I was impatient and snappy towards my Littles when all I wanted to do was cuddle them. I was tired. Tired of everything to do with cancer. Tired of the mindfuck that comes with surgery. Anticipating it but worrying it would be cancelled again. Preparing for the inevitable frustration of waiting and the pain that follows.

 

Husband dropped me off at the hospital a little early so that the Jackman wouldn't miss out on his gymnastics class. I sat in the cafe courtyard for a while, soaking up the warmth of the late morning sun. That little bit of quiet time was just what I needed...feeling the radiant heat on my skin, thinking of everyone I loved, telling myself that I could do this, just a walk in the park.

 

Then it was a case of going through the motions, a routine I now had down pat. A game of twenty questions with the nurse; gowning up; waiting; moving to the holding bay; cocooned in warm blankets; waiting; twenty questions again; anaesthetist tapping my arm to find a vein; waiting; surgeon graffitiing my chest; waiting and finally into the ice cold theatre. Stretching out on the table like a slab of meat on the butchers block, mask coming down on my face and then....black nothingness.

 

I have no memory of recovery, nor of the several hours afterwards. Eventually the pain crept into my foggy mind and woke me. It was 9pm, it was dark outside but the room was bright with light. Peeking under my gown I saw skin covered in flamingo pink betadine, always an assault on the eyes. Then my right breast, swollen and bruised but seemingly more even than before. Skin stretched taut, no longer puckered from radiation. Relief. A quick call home to say I was ok and then a night of sleep broken by hourly obs.

 

Morning...a change of shift, new nurses coming in and out. Head heavy with painkillers, dozing on and off, sun rises. Out of bed...tentative steps to the bathroom...wincing as the bloodied gown and bandages around my waist are removed. Then the shock of bruises revealling themselves. I hadn't anticipated so much. I hadn't thought about the aftermath of the liposuction. My poor, poor body. A long shower to wash away the gaudiness of flamingo pink. Slow work getting dressed. Blood still oozing from under dressings. Body aching and fragile.

 

Surgeon stops by to check his handiwork, encouraged with how the surgery went. I am so grateful for this softly spoken man who took away my cancer and rebuilt a most beloved part of my body. A few more hours of waiting, dozing off now and again, head still heavy with painkillers. Then home, home to my boys for cautious cuddles and rest.

 

 

 

 

This is it. I am done. My surgeon said we'd know in a few months if any more surgical "tweaking" is required but I know that I won't be needing it. I was never seeking perfection. Close enough is good enough for me. I am satisfied with what I have and I know that I won't be putting my body through any more surgery. I am so grateful that my treatments have given me a future. Now it's time to nurture this body back to health.

 

 

 

 

Time to rest and let the healing take hold.

xx Em

 

 

Posted with Blogsy

Golden Sundays

Sunday

 

Golden afternoon light.

 

Warm homemade apple pie from dearest of neighbours.

 

Kids riding bikes.

 

Autumn seedlings in veggie beds.

 

Pumpkin patch.

 

Autumn palette...pretty.

 

 

 

Afternoons like these diminish the stress and anxiety of surgery being cancelled at the last minute after waiting all day at the hospital.

Afternoons like these make me so damned grateful that I have time on my hands to spare, to spend with my Littles and my Love.

Afternoons like these breathe joy and beauty back into my soul.

 

xx Em

 

Posted with Blogsy

Pandora's Box

I'm home from hospital now.

My second mastectomy was a success. I'm doing ok and glad to be back in my own bed again.

 

I wanted to share the below post that I wrote two days after my surgery. I was in a very dark place. I think that I have a fair bit of work ahead of me in coming to terms with the emotional fallout that comes after battling cancer.

Also, heads up...this is a post about mastectomies. Squeeze your eyes shut if the sight of my reconstructed boob is not your cup of tea, or, you know, harden up and deal with it. It's just another boob.

 

**********************

 

Friday, August 8th

It's done.

 

 

The tears began to trickle from the moment I walked through the hospital doors and haven't stopped.

I wiped them away so that the nurses wouldn't notice in surgical admissions.

I wiped them away as I lay for hours in the room next to the theatre, waiting for my turn.

I wiped them away when the anaesthetist finally got the cannula into a vein, on the fifth excruciating try.

I wiped them away as they put me on the operating table and placed the mask over my face.

I wiped them away as I 'came to' in Recovery.

I wiped them away each time the nurses came into my room to do obs and give painkillers.

I wiped them away as my surgeon came in to check on me the morning after my mastectomy.

 

 

 

And then I stopped wiping the tears away.

 

 

The nurses came in bright and bubbly to give me my meds Friday morning and I burst into tears. Not the delicate kind. The great big hiccuping kind. The kind where speech is wiped out by uncontrollable sobs. They looked a bit scared, asked me what was wrong and when I couldn't respond they left me to cry it out in the privacy of my room.

 

I wanted to scream that I'd just had my breast removed, I wanted everyone to stop treating me like I'd just had my appendix out. I felt devastated. I felt entirely overwhelmed with the sense of loss. I wasn't alright. I wasn't the least bit alright. All of the sadness and stress that I'd managed to lock away during my treatments last year began bubbling up to the surface. This surgery was the last hurdle and I felt so completely broken by it. I felt like I'd slipped into a big black hole.

 

And so I cried, and cried and cried some more.

 

My breast care nurse came in and gave me the hug that I'd craved. She said everything that I needed to hear. She knew exactly where I was coming from. I felt understood. She 'got' the kind of loss that I felt. The tears didn't stop but I didn't feel the need to hide them anymore.

 

 

Last year I was in survival mode, jumping from one hideous treatment to the next with no time to really process my feelings. I became very good at telling myself to keep going. I had to keep it together for my boys and I couldn't lose control. I was quietly terrified of facing my Pandora's Box of emotions so I tucked that box away.

 

Well...the lid has now been opened...and its messy...and it feels endless.

 

 

Physically I'm sore and bruised and fragile.

 

 

Emotionally I'm raw and weak and worn.

 

I want the tears to stop. I want to recover and just get on with my life. This surgery was the final step and now it's done. It's done.

 

I want to focus on recovering, I want to be positive about my future. I am grateful that my treatment has given me a second crack at life. I don't want to take that for granted.

 

But for now, the tears keep coming and the sadness feels immense.

 

xx Em

 

 

Posted with Blogsy

Mirror Mirror...

I used to pay a LOT of attention to how I looked before having kids.

I enjoyed taking a good hard look at myself in the mirror before going out.

Hair...check, makeup...check, outfit...check!

Then babies arrived.

There was a little less paying attention to the mirror and a lot more paying attention to the teeny bundles of love in my life.

I still made the effort to look nice but going out with regurgitated breast milk on my shoulder was par for the course. Badge of honour really!

These days, I look in the mirror to draw on my eyebrows and paint what is left of my eyelashes and I'm afraid that its becoming a demoralising exercise.

My vanity has taken a big hit this year and although, in general, I believe that is a good thing, there are times when looking at my reflection causes a sharp intake of breath and I am shocked with what I can see.

Chemo has made my very pale, freckle prone skin incredibly photo-sensitive. Five minutes in the winter sun adds a dozen freckles to my face. I don't mind freckles in general...had plenty of them as a kid and each summer as an adult the smattering of freckles across my nose become more prominent. But when I look at my skin now, I see the damage that chemo has done. Freckles aren't cute anymore...they're a sign that my fragile, vunerable skin is in distress.

The wispy hair that covers my head should excite me because HEY, I'VE GOT HAIR AGAIN!!! But surprisingly, I burst into tears when I first noticed it a couple of weeks ago. Such an odd reaction. I can't even explain why, it just brought a huge wave of sadness. I don't know, maybe I spent too long telling myself that going bald was trivial and it didn't matter, when it really did.

I suppose I feel like the inner me is so far removed from the outer shell of me. I'm only 36 but the woman looking back at me from the mirror is 80. I'm past wanting to look gorgeous, I just want to look my age.

Maybe I need another stint in the Oncology ward to get my navel gazing issues sorted out. I should be grateful that chemo and surgery and soon-to-be-radiation is giving me the gift of life. The physical fallout should be superfluous right? Then why does it feel so wrong?

Mirror Mirror on the wall

Who's the biggest hypocrite of them all?

 

Posted with Blogsy