Day 22: Reconstruction or not
Well, I am a little lopsided at this point and there is quite the divot but I am alive and well.
I see the surgical oncologist and he takes me aside and says we need to talk.
I melt in fear of what he might be thinking.
He turns to me with all the compassion and warmth of any human being I have ever met and he brings up the unthinkable, the one thing I haven’t discussed.
He turns to me and says I am a young and vibrant woman with a lot ahead of me and that he would suggest I see a plastic surgeon for a consult.
I am flabbergasted.
I felt it would be too vain. I should be happy to be alive. It is just a breast.
I had dare not think it or even talk about it. I had been through surgery, chemo and radiation. I really had no sick time left as I used those days during my surgery recovery, the mediport insertion, the visit with the radiation oncologist, medical oncologist, surgical oncologist, PCP.
I hadn’t even considered it.
Now the thought does not seem so far fetched and I might, in fact, be interested.
The appointment is made and I return to Pittsburgh yet again for another visit. The doctor was more than pleasant, but our goals seemed very different.
I was told that I would need to take three months off of work, and I could just see how well that would go over after having had to take time for breast cancer.
I explained that I was really a pencil/ computer pusher and that I really didn’t have any thing heavy to carry or move, and yet I still would need to take three months off.
I knew that it would be totally unrealistic for me. I was also told about a prosthesis, but with my luck I could see it ending up at my belly button or as a shoulder pad.
I am just too much of “an regular ol’ gal” to want to mess with all of that.
I am now four years out and I do not regret my decision, although I totally support anyone who wants to pursue it. I had had all the doctors and doctor visits and appointments I cared to have for a lifetime. I was tired of being poked and prodded and tired of just not being me.
I wanted to lose the identity of a patient and return to the life I knew as a mom, wife, sister, friend, teacher, nurse and everything else in between. I have used up all my energy in getting through this and was not ready to put anything more on my plate.
Today I am fine. I pick clothes that don’t accentuate my physical body nor do I avoid something if I really want to wear it.
I am happy. I laugh a lot and, as I told one friend, the older I get, the race is on to see which of my body parts meets my belly button first.
One has a head start, of course, but the race is still on and I am just not an extreme makeover person as the cellulite, the scars, the varicose veins and the wrinkles are all my badge of courage and sign of a life well lived.
I hope that each and every person can and will chose the path that is best for them.
For me, it is like golf. I will just play through.
I see the surgical oncologist and he takes me aside and says we need to talk.
I melt in fear of what he might be thinking.
He turns to me with all the compassion and warmth of any human being I have ever met and he brings up the unthinkable, the one thing I haven’t discussed.
He turns to me and says I am a young and vibrant woman with a lot ahead of me and that he would suggest I see a plastic surgeon for a consult.
I am flabbergasted.
I felt it would be too vain. I should be happy to be alive. It is just a breast.
I had dare not think it or even talk about it. I had been through surgery, chemo and radiation. I really had no sick time left as I used those days during my surgery recovery, the mediport insertion, the visit with the radiation oncologist, medical oncologist, surgical oncologist, PCP.
I hadn’t even considered it.
Now the thought does not seem so far fetched and I might, in fact, be interested.
The appointment is made and I return to Pittsburgh yet again for another visit. The doctor was more than pleasant, but our goals seemed very different.
I was told that I would need to take three months off of work, and I could just see how well that would go over after having had to take time for breast cancer.
I explained that I was really a pencil/ computer pusher and that I really didn’t have any thing heavy to carry or move, and yet I still would need to take three months off.
I knew that it would be totally unrealistic for me. I was also told about a prosthesis, but with my luck I could see it ending up at my belly button or as a shoulder pad.
I am just too much of “an regular ol’ gal” to want to mess with all of that.
I am now four years out and I do not regret my decision, although I totally support anyone who wants to pursue it. I had had all the doctors and doctor visits and appointments I cared to have for a lifetime. I was tired of being poked and prodded and tired of just not being me.
I wanted to lose the identity of a patient and return to the life I knew as a mom, wife, sister, friend, teacher, nurse and everything else in between. I have used up all my energy in getting through this and was not ready to put anything more on my plate.
Today I am fine. I pick clothes that don’t accentuate my physical body nor do I avoid something if I really want to wear it.
I am happy. I laugh a lot and, as I told one friend, the older I get, the race is on to see which of my body parts meets my belly button first.
One has a head start, of course, but the race is still on and I am just not an extreme makeover person as the cellulite, the scars, the varicose veins and the wrinkles are all my badge of courage and sign of a life well lived.
I hope that each and every person can and will chose the path that is best for them.
For me, it is like golf. I will just play through.
