there's no place like home
I just want to remind everyone that there might be some content on this blog that isn't the prettiest of pictures - but this hasn't been a pretty process. I was a little bit worried about what people might have to say, but decided that if it helps one person to see the reality behind this surgery, then it would be worth it to share parts of myself that might make you cringe. I got this message from a fellow BRCA girl on Instagram, and it made me so happy. I had hoped to help one person, and now that I know I have, I'll continue to hope to help another... Please email me directly if there's ever anything that you are curious about, would like to see photos of (I probably took one), or if you just need to talk! My email is sue.sardinia@gmail.com, and I would be so happy to hear from you!
I am so sorry that this has become a reality in her life too, but I am so thankful that we have each other to lean on when everything seems far to confusing to figure out on our own. Thank you for leaving me that message, it meant a lot.
Now, on to recovery... There's nowhere better to recover than your moms house. Be it from surgery, or a hangover, Moms couch has always done wonders for me. I had generous offers from my work fam and friends in Boston to take care of me post-surgery, but I couldn't help but want my Momma. It's one thing to have someone grab you some cough drops and make you tea, but it is a whole other to have them help you empty goop out of your surgical drains...
I was worried about the 3 hour drive home to NY, but I ended up sleeping the whole way and not remembering a majority of the ride... Heeey, pain meds! Love ya! I actually found out that my brother had proposed to his girlfriend on the drive, and scream-cried when I got the text from them - which i'll have you know is not the best reaction to have while you're being driven after having major surgery. Sorry for the scare, momma! Congrats, guys :)
I was told that I'd need a month off from work post-surgery, and thought that my doctor was kidding. I'm a nanny, and the youngest is four, and a handful, but I figured I could swing being back in 2 weeks and taking it easy... nope, not the case. I am so thankful for the understanding of my work fam, and having the extra time to heal, because a) time off from work is cool, but b) it really did take that long. I spent the first two days not moving from the couch, unless I had to go to the bathroom. I had no appetite, and I couldn't use my arms. My first night back was awful. I had an allergic reaction to my prescription (delaudid), and broke out in a full body rash in the middle of the night. I wanted to rip my skin off. I immediately stopped taking any pain meds, and went strictly with Tylenol from there on out. It was not nearly strong enough for my pain, but I would rather jump in front of a truck than deal with that rash again. Because when I say full body, I mean full, body. No thank you. I found that I was only comfortable sitting up, and felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest when I wasn't propped up by pillows. There was constant pain, but I began to get used to it. My drain spots, in each armpit, were incredibly sore and a constant bother to me trying to get comfortable. For anyone that hasn't seen a surgical drain before (I hadn't), they'e clear tubes that go straight into a small hole in you, and pump out the fluids that could cause an infection. Think gooey puss that you get when you skin your knee, but in a greater quantity, flowing from a tube that hangs out of a small hole in your armpit, into a ball that is dangling down to around your waist. Cute, I know.
The couch was the place I could get most comfortable, and once I was there I didn't move much. I napped harder and more often than I probably did as a newborn. I thought that I might get a bunch of good books in during my recovery, but every time I tried to read I was snoring. Pain would come in waves, and during the lulls I'd convince myself that I could get up and do something, or even leave the house, but then the next wave would come, aaaand then I'd become narcoleptic. I made the mistake of using my hands to brace myself while I sat up, and have never felt more pain in my life. You essentially lose any function in your upper body for the first few days, and feel like your chest is going to burst open if you try to use it. I still had the plastic wrap type of bandage stuck to my incisions, covered up with gauze bandages and a surgical bra. I felt like a beast. I was bloated, sore, sweaty, and boobless. It wasn't the best couple of days, but it wasn't the worst. I bet chemo would be worse, I bet that cancer is definitely worse.
By my second day home I was allowed to remove the bandages and shower. This was a big deal. Not only did this mean that I'd be standing up for an extended period of time (don't be fooled, I wouldn't do any of this on my own, Mom was my crutch the whole time), but it also meant that I had to see what my chopped off chest looked like. I don't know exactly how to explain it to someone that hasn't been thru this, but my best effort is to say that it's the feeling of a part of your body no longer being your own. Part of you is gone, forever. Yea sure they're "just boobs", but they're also my freaking boobs! I'm a woman, I'm a female human being, I'm supposed to have those. I was really scared to see myself without them. It wasn't just a matter of feeling ugly, thats something that I could, should, and (sort of) have, gotten over. It was a matter of feeling damaged or less than my previous self.
With my mom by my side every step of the way, I peeled the bandage off and took it all in. And by 'took it all in' I mean I looked down for about five seconds and then bit my lip to hold in tears and closed my eyes. All I had to do was look at my mom and she said "I know, I know." It's a girl thing I guess, and a mom thing, I'm sure. She got it. She knew that was a lot to see. I stood there naked in the tub with my drains in my hands, my eyes closed, my bruised, flat, chest throbbing, my body covered in a blistery rash - and my mom scrubbed me from head to toe. I am so thankful for you, Momma.
Looking back at these photos, it really wasn't that bad. I mean, it's sort of bad, my boobs were gone, but the looks of things got worse over the healing process. At this point things had not begun to bruise nearly as bad as they would, and the swelling didn't really allow me to understand the actual shape of my chest. i was essentially a log. I was barely able to fit into a large sports bra, when I can normally fit comfortably in a small. The nipples weren't looking good, but they hadn't yet turned into the giant scabs that they would in a few days. Those were beauties. Maybe it was meant to be that way, not as bad a blow to see them this way for the first time...
I didn't have the strength to turn a door knob, but I insisted on shaving my legs. My mom forbid me from shaving my armpits, I think she was scared that it would somehow cause my drains to pull out of my body and squirt bodily fluids all over us - but my legs, I insisted, would be one part of me that I could maintain. Little things like that helped me feel like I wasn't completely helpless, or hideous. When you've lost a big piece (literally, it is gone) of your femininity, you feel a bit inclined to hold onto it in the other places that you're able to. Brushing and blowdrying my hair were not an option, neither was a cute outfit, so you pick your battles. Shaved legs made me feel better.