If thy boobies offend thee
There was no lump. No bump. No discharge. No itch. No shadow. No image. There was only a hunch.
The doctor thought that what she saw was atypical hyperplasia, but she wasn't sure. That's not cancer, she said, but precancerous and it would have to come out. I was good with whatever wasn't supposed to be there being in a test tube . I was not good with being asleep to have things happen. For my first and second biopsy, I was awake and talking. The second one was actually classified as a partial mastectomy, but I was allowed to talk to the surgeon throughout the entire procedure. My biggest question? If they can take fat from your butt and put it in your face, why couldn't they do that for your breasts?
The answer: Because. Just. Because.
I was going to have a hole.
Good thing my breasts don't define who I am. Good thing my man isn't a boob man.
The margins were not clear after that procedure. That meant that when my Mimime asked me, I had to tell her that no, they had not gotten it all. They also told me that what they thought was hyperplasia appeared instead to be early stage cancer.
My choices were simple. I could let them take another chunk out of my breast, now much smaller than the other, add some radiation and medication and "rearrange" the other to match. This was not guaranteed, if they couldn't get clearl margins, you only get three tries,
I would be facing mastectomy. Since reconstruction was not a successful on radiated skin, they would have to perform reconstruction using skin they took from elsewhere, eg, my stomach or my back. My muscles would be compromised and I could kiss my bikinis and my figure competitions goodbye.
The other option was to go right to mastectomy with reconstruction. No radiation, no skin flap needed. Problem here/--the surgery was too long for me to be awake.
Images of 1960s mastectomy lurked in my mind. Women severely disfigured and forever in pain. This was not how I pictured me. I was not the Hunchboob of Notre Dame. I am a shoe diva looking good in a bikini at 50.
I so couldn't picture myself stressing every six months because of what might be on a breast exam. Or my kids mourning me becauSe things had turned aggressive, I'd lived that and didn't want the same script different cast.
Ever since my daughter was born, I'd said the same prayer every single night. I'd asked God to let me live long enough to see them grow into adults. Maybe I should have been asking for no cancer. God has given me what I'd asked for, and there was only one decision that could possibly be made. If thine boobies offend thee, cast them out. Out they would go.
To be continued