The Uni-Boob

So I finally got my explanation.
I now know why my breast size is smaller than its original packaging.

My doctor believed that I would probably want to avoid:
THE UNI-BOOB!

We've all seen it. Maybe you've even experienced it personally, while wearing a tight-fitting sports bra. Without the bra, you have two. But after squeezing into the breast compressor, you find that your two breasts have morphed into one.

There's also a medical term for it: Symmastia (or medial mal-position). It occurs when breast implants move too far toward the midline. In some cases, the implants may touch one another in the center of the chest. It happens when a surgeon is too aggressive with his/her attempts to alter chest wall anatomy (i.e., trying too hard to increase a patient's cleavage).

In my case, my pectoral muscles are anatomically far apart and so are (were) my breasts. My surgeon was unable to move them closer together without risking the creation of the uni-boob.
After complaining in my last blog, I now agree with his decision to leave them in their natural locations.
After all, I'm not much of a risk-taker.

The Solution?
One part patience; one part silicone; and one part fat.

For the next few months, we will see how the implant rests in the pocket.
(I'm getting in-touch with my inner pool table.)
By then, the capsule (i.e., scar tissue surrounding the implant) should have either shrunk enough to make the implant appear less rippled or will have to be replaced.

My surgeon is betting on the latter.
He thinks it will probably take two or three more sessions to revise my breasts and make them look better.
Part of his solution will include replacing the existing implants with slightly larger ones.
The other part of his plan will be to graph fat from another part of my body and add it to my breast.

(Let me stop right here to inform you, and you know who you are, this is not an invitation for you to start offering me your excess flesh.)

"Even with thin women, I can usually find some fat to use," he assures me,
assuming I need assurance.
I stand up and introduce him to my stomach.
After the births of three babies: 8.6 lbs., 10 lbs., and 7.14 lbs.,
finding body fat is not a problem.

REALITY:
I will never have cleavage.
No one will ever stare at my breast and whisper, "are those real?"

I have adjusted my expectations,
again.
Come August, I look forward to adjusting my bra size too,
hopefully for the last time.

The Ripple Effect

The ripple effect is a term used to describe a situation where, like the ever expanding ripples across water when an object is dropped into it, an effect from an initial state can be followed outwards incrementally. (Wikipedia)

That 'pretty much' describes how one of my breasts looks
...like silicone rippling beneath my skin, causing it to droop outward.

Right now, you're probably thinking:
What? Aren't your implants new? Didn't you just have surgery a couple of weeks ago?
If that is what you're thinking, and I don't mean to burst your bubble (pun intended), they are, and I did.

At my first follow-up appointment, my breast didn't look this way, but I can still recall the PA saying that it would take about three months for them to "settle." (Settle as in: to sink gradually or to the bottom?)

Since I had an appointment today, I asked my physical therapist what she thought.
"Does this breast look right to you?"
I was lying on my back, but my breast looked as if it was about to slide off the edge of a cliff.

WAIT A MINUTE!! Shouldn't fake boobs forever point north?

The therapist took a look.
"It's not supposed to look like that. I'm not an expert, but that one might be defective."
It WAS defective, I think to myself. That's why I had it replaced.

But I knew what she meant.

I see my plastic surgeon next week.
I can't wait.
I need him to understand that
although I've given birth to three boys, and one of them weighed just over ten pounds, I'm still in my forties, and unprepared to see another body part with ripples.

When is Getting a C Better than a B?

The new girlz are in.

I hate to admit it, but I'm a little disappointed with them. I was expecting bigger and better. Imagine my let-down (no pun intended) when I peeked beneath my tightly bound tube top to find two B-cups. (At least I think they are B-cups.) What happened to the C-cups I requested?




When I unwrapped my bandages after last week's surgery, I felt deflated...literally. Hadn't my doctor said, "You will definitely wear a C-cup in a Victoria's Secret bra?"
And what happened to the 425 cc's of saline I'd grown accustomed to, while living with expanders? Mine even had names. The left one was October and the right one was November, referring to the fall of '09 when expanders replaced my breasts.

Bigger boobs were supposed to be my pay-off for getting breast cancer.
Some pay-off!

Today my PA informed me that my breasts still have some swelling. "Does this mean my breast will be even smaller?" I asked. Looks like I'll be putting off buying that new bra for another three months.

Ironic thing is, I don't really need to wear one.

1000 Prayers for Japan

My heart aches this week for the people of Japan.
It's not as if I don't know anyone living in that country.
As a matter of fact, I know of seven people (some I've met, others I have not).
They are now living in a country devastated by an earthquake and tsunami.

10,000 feared dead
Threat of nuclear meltdown
Shortages of food and water
Loss of electricity

None of the events over the past few days has directly affected the small town of Osaka, where Sean lives. Sean was Jeff's best friend in high school. He has lived in Japan for more than 17 years, and is married to Ikuko. They have four children: Karen, Megan and Sarah, and a lone boy, Simon. Ikuko's mother is part of their family.

In last Friday Facebook post, Sean asked us to pray for the people of Japan.

Prayer: a devout petition to God.

I immediately thought about the Senbazuru, which hangs in my bedroom window. It is a collection of one thousand origami paper cranes held together by strings. Sean sent it to me while I underwent chemo treatment. He didn't personally fold each crane. He didn't have to. Instead, he solicited help from family, neighbors, friends, employees, students...anyone willing to make a crane and say a prayer. The 1,000 paper cranes, intricately woven into a breath-taking design, was an ever-present reminder that people in Japan prayed for me.

In light of the impending nuclear threat, what better time to pray. While I cannot orchestrate the assembly of a Senbazuru, perhaps I can solicit prayer for the people of Japan.

...1,000 prayers for Japan,
Who's with me?

Choose Life

The first time I remember hearing the word CANCER,
I was seven years old, and my grandfather was dead.
It was probably another ten years before I recall hearing that word again.

But since having my own occurrence with breast cancer,
not a month passes without my being told of another life,
interrupted by the disease.

Take the case of a friend's friend.

She was diagnosed with breast cancer at an early age, when cancers are generally most aggressive. Against her doctor's advice, she decided not to undergo chemotherapy and received radiation therapy only -

...which got me to thinking:
What would make a person forgo a potentially life-extending treatment?
Was she afraid?
Did she believe she would be okay without chemo?

As I pondered the question, I was reminded that my aunt also chose a similar path, nearly 15 years ago. When cancer was discovered in one of her breasts, she had a mastectomy. After surgery, the recommended standard of care was chemo, followed by radiation. Aunt D. passed on the former.

But when her cancer returned more than two years ago, she began to regret her earlier decision. After my first surgery, she wrote a letter encouraging me to take the chemo, if offered by my doctors. There was little question in my mind that I would.

Was I afraid? Definitely.
Did I believe I could be okay without chemo? Definitely not.

In fact, I spent months trying to wiggle out from under radiation. I shopped RadOncs, looking for someone who would tell me that I didn't need to have the therapy. When radiation was "strongly recommended" three times, I acquiesced.
I wanted no regrets.

My aunt's decision to skip chemo may have cost her more than a breast.
The pain started in her back and moved to her legs.
Walking became difficult.
She is currently undergoing treatment and probably will for the rest of her life.

Last week, I was introduced to a different woman living with Stage 4 Bone Metastasis.
I know little about her, but I assume that she is REALLY tired of hearing the word- CANCER.
I would also guess that she is afraid.
Hell, we're all afraid of something.
The decision to undergo treatment or not is highly personal.
But I'd be willing to bet that if treatment appears to be the only option for saving or extending life,
most of us would chose life.

I know I did.

What Not to Say to a Cancer Patient...if You're a Therapist

I was inspired to write this after reading another blogger's entry entitled, "What Not to Say to Cancer Patients."

In her blog, Wendy Farha writes about people who offer unsolicited advice regarding taking supplements/herbal medicines and eating miracle foods.
Her entry reminded me of a recent visit to a therapist.

Because I was there for a family member, I was a little surprised when she began asking about my medical history. After learning I'd had breast cancer, her line of questioning took an unwelcomed turn.

QUESTION: Do you eat meat?
ANSWER: Yes.
QUESTION: But you eat it only once a week, right?
ANSWER: No, more often than that. We don't eat lots of red meat, but we do eat lots of chicken.
WHAT NOT TO SAY TO A CANCER PATIENT...if you're a therapist:
You shouldn't eat meat more than once a week. It's not good for you.

QUESTION: Take any prescription drugs?
ANSWER: I take Drugs A, B, C, D, and E, daily.
QUESTION: Why do you take Drug C?
ANSWER: My doctor prescribed it for menopausal symptoms.
WHAT NO TO SAY TO A CANCER PATIENT...if you're a therapist, and my physician husband is seated beside me:
Drug C isn't for that; it makes you hot. These physicians...I don't know what they're thinking.

QUESTION: Do you drink?
ANSWER: Yes
QUESTION: How much?
ANSWER: Two, sometimes three drinks a week, mostly wine with dinner.
WHAT NOT TO SAY TO A CANCER PATIENT...if you're a therapist, speaking to a woman who is not your patient, but who is beginning to dislike you:
You cannot drink ANYTHING!!! EVER!!! You've had breast cancer.

In her blog, Wendy suggests,
"If you feel you absolutely MUST advise a cancer patient to try something, why not first let the person know casually that you've heard of something you think might be helpful."

Good looking-out Wendy.

So, to this (particular) therapist, I'd like to casually suggest "something that might be helpful." Keep your nutrition and pharmaceutical recommendations to yourself. It will allow more time for you to listen to your patients...even if I'm not one of them.

My Perfect Valentine

Valentine's Day 2011 has come and gone.
Personally I'm happy that it's over.
By design - it isn't the kind of day that gets a lot of attention at our house.

Early in our marriage, Jeff and I were eager to go out. We'd make dinner reservations, get dressed up and crowd into a restaurant with a flood of other patrons. We'd eat an adequate, over-priced meal and await the arrival of our bill, before vowing to never eat out again on Valentine's night.

When the boys were little, and we didn't have a sitter, I'd prepare two meals:
the highly favored mac-n-cheese with chicken fingers,
and a romantic, three-course meal for Jeff and I to enjoy once the kids were in bed. Too often, however, our evening ended with us eating too much food, drinking too much wine and, as over-tired parents often discover, wanting little more than a good night's sleep.

Over the past couple of years, expectations have shifted.
Romance isn't dead in our home, but it's definitely been redefined.
Sunday night I announced to Jeff,
"We aren't romantic people; that's okay. I only need romance, maybe a couple of times a year anyway."
I couldn't tell if he was relieved or insulted.

This year we stayed home. I cooked dinner, and Jeff made chocolate fondue.
We ate together, as a family.
There were no roses,
no jewelry,
no over sized heart-shaped box of truffles.

There is only certainty in knowing that after these past 18 months,
no single day will ever adequately convey the love between me and
My Perfect Valentine.