30 September 2011

Two Weeks Out of Surgery


Today I am two weeks out of surgery.  I have reflected some about the changes thrust upon me and I'm thankful that I'm still ok with all that has happened.  It's quite a kick in the stomach to be diagnosed with the very thing that killed your mother.  Especially when it killed her when she was thirty years older than yourself.  I really feel that what saved me shpilkes here was how I was initially led to believe we had caught it VERY early, (instead of just early.)
 
I was immediately so mad at my tits for turning on me that as soon as I had the diagnosis, I had pretty well written them off.  ("OK, you wanna play hardball?  Try me.  Two can play that game.")  I think it actually helped that the cancer hurt, because I had been exercising pretty hard, and wanting to start running again and my boobs were kind of holding me back.  It hurt to run.  That was another thing that prompted me to mention it to my doctor.  So right from square one I had every intention of getting rid of them and no serious illusions about a lumpectomy. That has helped tremendously as I look in the mirror these days, trying to get used to seeing what I'm seeing.

My entire shape has changed.  Not just in front of my ribs, but rather from my head to my knees, I have been totally re-proportioned.  And I must say I really like my new shape.  For years trainers have been telling me I have good muscle mass, (albeit smothered in marshmallow fluff, some of which came from marshmallow fluff,) but I've never really been able to see it.  Now I can see I have broad shoulders and strong-ish arms.  (Losing muscle mass as I sit and type here because I'm on frigging bedrest... )  I have small hips and no saddle bags, (thanks to walking like a madwoman for the past three months, and again, disappearing.)  For the first time in a very long time I actually look athletic, and healthy and dare I say - lean?  (OK, maybe not lean, but a hell of a lot more lean than I looked two weeks ago.)  And I am excited by the possibilities of rebuilding this new body into something terrific.

 
The only thing I am second guessing at this point was the (almost) automatic decision for re-construction.  I like how I look now, and I wonder if I really need foobs (fake boobs) to feel right again.  Having the expanders in does complicate the recovery and as you may have realized, I'm tired of being debilitated.  There is also some discomfort associated with what they had to do to my chest muscles to make the pocket for where the implant will eventually go, not to mention the stretching of the skin and muscle.  And I feel totally unqualified to decide how big I want them to be now that I'm digging being flat.  For years I've felt having big boobs was better than having small boobs.  Totally cultural brain-washing.  I now am happy to be joining the other team.  Let's hope I can get rid of the marshmallow fluff so I look as good as the picture.