HAPPY FOOBIE-VERSARY!

 Three hundred and sixty five days later…..

I still remember the time I woke up, and what I did that morning. I double checked my overnight bag to make sure it had all the necessities in it that all the websites say you need to bring with you . Pillow? Check. Lip Balm? Check. Baggy button up shirts? Check. Phone charger?  Check. Check. Check. Just like that we were in the car. I sat in the passenger seat looking out the window, crying silently. The tears left my cheek and rested on my zip up hoodie. The Kid Rock CD that is usually blaring through the speakers was turned down low; Mom only had it on to try to keep me in a normal state of mind. As we drove closer and closer to the hospital, she held my hand. She was strong, supportive, and comforting, everything I needed in that moment, however; I couldn’t help but resent the lady that was driving me to surgery that was forever going to change my life. The usual pretty short drive to ‘The Valley’ seemed like an eternity.

My-Other-Dad, and Mom before surgery.
Cancer Free For Christmas!

We pulled into the parking lot; no one was there, the sun still sleeping. We got out of the car and collected all my things and made a couple steps towards the entry way. I froze in my tracks, I can’t do this, cancel the surgery, and I’ll take my chances. I had a complete breakdown in the middle of the parking lot, my parents surrounded me, comforted me, and somehow I ended up on the surgical wing of the Robert Packer Hospital. The receptionist at the desk had to ask her mandatory question of “What are you here for?” the words “bilateral mastectomy” barely escaped my lips. This was real, this was happening, no turning back now. They escorted me back to get me prepped. The sweet staff was so compassionate and cheery, which was so comforting. I feel like I was forcing a smile and putting on a show for them.  On the outside I was smiling and making jokes, but my true emotion on the inside was attending a funeral. I was never going to be the same person; today was my very own personal D-Day.

A sweet nurse who wanted to get in on the selfie.

Everything was going seemingly smooth. Dr. Everson, came in, closed the curtains, and he created his very own Mona Lisa on my chest. I looked down and realized these black marker lines were going to be my scars, and that this would be the last time I would look down and see real breast tissue and nipples. My emotions were starting to heighten, and the feeling of fear started to creep back to the forefront of my thoughts. I got back into bed and it was time that they hooked me up to the IV, as it was almost “show time”, however, my veins were not cooperating and it took several attempts to try to gain access. I was visibly upset and crying, so much so that they had to give me medicine to calm me down. I vaguely remember being wheeled into the surgery room. Being transferred to the surgical table, I cried. I hoped I was making the best decision for my health, I hoped I would still find myself beautiful. Dr. Z, my breast surgeon, at this point looking like an alien in his surgical attire; looked me in my eyes, held my hand and he said, “everything is going to be okay” and my eyes got heavier and heavier and heavier and I fell asleep.

My family from Maine, and my Dad
posing with Matt! 

 Nine hours later, my eyes fluttered open. I was alone, and it didn’t even seem like I had a surgery. Then it hit me out of nowhere.The nurse appeared and tended to my needs. My mom and dad were finally allowed back in to see me. I was fine emotionally until I saw them. My team.  They were rooting for me in that uncomfortable waiting room, supporting me. Cancer has taught me one thing, unconditional love. You see when you get really sick, you find out who your true friends are. I had family come in to see me, and while I was happy to have them there. I was upset that they were there, seeing me in my worst form, like an infant relies on its’ mother for care, I too was completely helpless. I did not want to be perceived as weak, or destitute.  

 Physically, I felt fine, my chest felt like it had a brick on it, but the pain medicine seemed to be working. Then, I felt the familiar feeling everyone has felt before. I was going to be sick. Being under the anesthesia for so long had made me ill. I began to cry because I did not want to ­throw up. I knew the force of vomiting on top of a double mastectomy was going to be excruciating, and it was, and it happened several times.

Couple days post op.
The drains you can see in this picture
collect blood and lymphatic fluid

My mom was the only person permitted to stay overnight with me. I slept on and off throughout the night. I remember needing to pee and not wanting to wake my mom because she too had had an emotionally draining day. I buzzed for the nurse, who seemed unhappy to be bothered, and she was not happy when I would wince in pain from getting up from the bed. You don’t know how much you rely on your chest muscles until they have been cut into. By mid-morning I was feeling good, I was able to brush my teeth, and so I already started feeling better. I was discharged around noon, the day following my surgery.

Remember that quick drive to the valley and how long it took to get out there? Well it took even longer to get back home. Every pothole we hit sent excruciating pain through my chest.  I got home and stayed on my pain medicine, however, it didn’t mask the pain. Drains came out of my sides filled with blood. I was bruised, and padded up I felt like a robot. I didn’t feel like a human, and I certainly didn’t feel like a woman.

Maggie was gentle and loving during recovery.
Exactly what I needed.

My mom, a true angel, never left my side. She always made sure I had snacks, drinks, and medicine. We were able to watch an entire series of Friends during my recovery. I wasn’t allowed to fully shower for the first week, and my mom took me in every day and washed me, like she did when I was a baby. The shower always insinuated a breakdown. I felt humiliated. I couldn’t care for myself. I even needed help going to the bathroom. I remember asking her if I made a horrible decision, tears would always fill my eyes.

Mom always had to be the one to apply new dressings to my wounds and help put my surgical bra back on. One day I got the courage to look, granted, before I was supposed to. I saw swollen, bruised, fake breasts, with no nipples. Again, I bent over and sobbed. This wasn’t me. However, I was patient with the process. Three weeks later, I got my drains removed, and that is when I started to feel like a human again, I was going to overcome this.

Matt couldn't make it home for my surgery
but was able to make me laugh and feel
 better about myself a week after.

My mastectomy was not going to define me as a person, and three hundred sixty five days post-op, it hasn’t.  Not saying I don’t have my bad days. There are some days I stand in front of the mirror and criticize myself. I may think my scars haven’ faded properly, or I’m foobies (fake boobies) are lopsided. Some days, I cry and miss the old “BMink”. Yet, this is the body that beat cancer. You see, “Here is the beautiful thing about those marks that you don’t always so proudly bare- all those scars, wrinkles, stains and blemishes. They tell a story, your story, and it is a tale of resilience written perfectly placed upon your flesh. You are one of a kind-the only one who has lived your life and knows your sacred truths. So own every mark upon you, for they are a part of the identity that you have negotiated in this beautiful life and you are exactly as you are meant to be.”

Today, marking my foobie-versary, I have not only had my implants for one year, but in conjunction; today marks my one year anniversary of being no evidence of disease, aka “Cancer Free”.  Here’s to the next 365 days of a happy, healthy, BMink.

xoxo