Last year I posted a black and white photo collage project I titled "And Still She Blooms." It was my chemotherapy chapter of the project. You can view that HERE.
I had every intention of doing my mastectomy and reconstruction chapter shortly afterwards, but I just didn't. Or I guess I couldn't. I couldn't bare to keep looking at the photos. The pain was too fresh, deep, and raw.
Even now, almost a year later, each time I look through the photos, I'm transported back to the moment, like no time has passed at all, and I'm filled with more emotions than I know what to do with. So I just grit my teeth and choke them down.
With the anniversary of my mastectomy coming up tomorrow, on July 13th, I figured it time to finally work on and post my mastectomy and reconstruction chapter. This time, however, it is a mix of black and white photos as well as color photos. And just as a precaution, there are many topless photos. However, I've barred them so as to not be too x-rated. But it was important to me to show the painful reality of a mastectomy and reconstitution. Things aren't magically perfect. That's not how it works.
As hard as it was...and still is....to cope with, the 13th isn't just the anniversary of my mastectomy, but it also marks one year no evidence of disease. So it is a day to celebrate, despite it being a hard one.
And Still She Blooms
We checked into our hotel the evening of Wednesday July 12th. The night before, as well as the morning of, you have to scrub your whole body with a special disinfectant wash. I did so, and then cried in the shower.
After a restless night, and waking up early, we left the hotel and arrived at St. Vincent's Hospital in Portland, OR at 6:30 in the morning on Thursday, July 13th.
I felt stupid walking in in my pajamas. There were already a handful of other people waiting around to check into whatever surgery they were getting that day. We were all checking each other out, no doubt each of us wondering what was wrong with the other to have them be here. I felt like I was part of some club....but I didn't want to be. I didn't want to be there at all.
My stomach was in knots. I found a chair by a window and sat down. I looked out the window and tried to avoid eye contact with everyone around me.
We were eventually called back by a nurse and brought to a surgery holding room. I changed into their awful gown, socks, and cap. Smiles and a thumbs up the entire time when Sam was looking, and for the camera, because the alternative was crying.
Laying on that bed, IV line placed by the nurse, just waiting for the reconstruction surgeon to come mark me and the anesthesiologist to come wheel me away. It's such a surreal feeling. Such a sick feeling. I don't think anything can adequately prepare you for a surgery like that. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to scream and rage. I wanted to swear. I wanted to fight. I wanted to cry. I wanted to run away. My throat was tight. I could feel the tears starting to well. My chin quiver. I clenched my jaw as tight as I could. I held my breath. I stared at the wall and willed myself to stop. I shut down. That's how I cope. That's my toxic trait. When it all gets to be too much, I turn it off and push it down as best I can.
In that moment, if I cried, it would have turned into sobbing. And if I sobbed, it would have turned into panic. And I didn't know if I could come back from that.
So I plastered on a fake smile and told myself to just do the hard thing. There was no other choice anyway.
The reconstruction surgeon came in, went over things, and marked me. I sat stone cold. Emotionless.
The anesthesiologist came in and wheeled me out. I said goodbye to Sam. I was wheeled down a few hallways. I felt embarrassed to be on the bed, being seen by so many people along the way. It was so awkward. Passing people, and them turning to look at you. We pushed through the double doors into the operating suite. There were a handful of people in the room, and it felt like too many. I felt like a spectacle and I hated it. I was transferred to the operating table. Whit shaky hands I reached down and pulled up my socks. I smoothed and fixed my gown. I lied back and tried to get comfortable. An impossible task given the circumstances. The light overhead was too bright. Someone moved it out of my eyes and I thanked them. I confirmed my name and age. I confirmed what surgery I was about to have. I could feel my cheeks get hot. Feel a lump well in my throat. Feel the panic in my quickened breath. I bit my lip to keep from crying. Meds were prepared and administered into my IV. I wanted to cry out that I wasn't ready. Wasn't ready for everything to change. But I didn't. Instead I started counting down from 10 and got to 7.
What I had done:
Left breast mastectomy with immediate implant reconstruction. This consists of completely removing all of the breast tissue on that left side, then placing a silicon implant in the made pocket with a biomesh (a type of surgical mesh made from organic biomaterial) used to support it. A right breast silicon implant was place to "help achieve symmetry."
I also received a sentinel lymph node biopsy. From the beginning of my diagnosis, it was said via two different biopsies that my lymph nodes were clear. This is why I was stage 2 and not stage 3 breast cancer. However, it is good practice during a mastectomy to check again. A sentinel lymph node biopsy identifies the first few lymph nodes into which a cancer tumor might spread. The surgeon uses a dye and a weak radioactive solution to locate the sentinel nodes. Those nodes are removed and then tested for signs of cancer.
I got clear margins during my mastectomy (meaning they got the whole tumor and no visible cancer cells were left) and my sentinel lymph node biopsy came back negative.
From that moment on, from what the surgeons and oncologist could tell, I could officially be declared "no evidence of disease."
Even now, thinking back, I get queasy. I try not to picture how things might have been, but I can't help it. I picture the surgeons and staff cutting into me. Man handling me. Sitting me up and staring at me to see if they "achieved symmetry." It's all too much. I'm glad I'll never really know.
I woke up in a recovery room. I don't know how long I had been in there, back with Sam, before I woke up. My first thought was that I wish I hadn't woken up. My next was about the pain. So much pain. I looked down to see my chest swaddled in a pink snap front mastectomy bra with tons of gauze and medical bandages. I looked away.
Sam handed me a meal card to fill out for lunch. I ate. I was surprised I could eat.
A nurse came in to check on me and take my vitals. She brought me a fresh gown and Sam helped me change into it. Every move shot pain across my chest.
The nurse showed me my drain tube and bulb. I felt disgusting. She explained how we would be keeping track of the liquid output.
She gave me some pain meds and I settled back into the bed.
Sam turned on the tv. All I wanted to do was zone out. I didn't want to think about what was under the pink mastectomy bra.
I waited for Sam to get up and go for a walk. And then, once alone, I cried. I sobbed. I felt so fragile in that moment. So very, very alone in this journey. I never asked for any of this. So much taken from me. My hair. My energy. My confidence. My health. My choices. My natural breasts. My peace. All replaced with depression, fear, anxiety, anger, pain, and trauma. I wanted to just cry and cry and cry, endlessly.
The surgeons walked in on me just then, to check on me before they headed out, and I was so angry at their timing. I didn't want to see their faces. Didn't want them to see me crying. I was asked how I was doing. And all I could squeak out was, "It's just a lot." Later, I would read in the charting notes how they said I "was teary" and it just pisses me off.
They left. I calmed myself down. Sam returned and I asked to use the restroom and go for a walk. It felt good to do so.
The remainder of the evening was spent resting in bed, watching tv, nurses coming in and out to give pain meds, take my vitals, and empty my drain bulb. I ate dinner. I tried not to think. The last thing I wanted to do was think.
I was so tired, but sleep wasn't very restful. Every few hours over night I was woken up by the nurses. Which sucked, but they were so kind. I was thankful for their care.
Friday, July 14th. It was my 37th birthday. The kitchen wrote "Happy Birthday" on my breakfast slip and it was the first time I produced a real smile. Discharge from the hospital took awhile. I didn't mind. Despite missing my dog and wanting to get home to him, I would have stayed in the hospital longer had they allowed me to.
The nurses were helpful and I was anxious to be on my own. My chest was swollen and if I didn't keep on top of the pain meds, I was in a lot of pain. The drain tube coming out of my left side under my implant was a pain and I didn't want to deal with it. And I was scared to look at myself.
Sam helped me get dressed. We packed stuff up and headed for the Transitions Program room, right there inside the hospital, where we got to browse wigs, other head coverings, mastectomy bras and accessories, and other items, free of charge. I was impressed with the Transitions Program and I plan to donate all of my mastectomy items to them later this month when I am in the area for my yearly follow up with my reconstruction surgeon.
Before being able to head home, I had to go see the nurse at my reconstruction surgeon's clinic just a short distance from the hospital so she could go over proper healing care, show me how to drain and measure liquid output, and make sure things were looking ok at the 24 hour mark.
I was dreading it. I knew she was going to unwarp me, and I didn't want to look. But I did. Because I had to.
And just like I knew I would, I hated what I saw. Swollen, bruised, misshapen, disfigured. Not me. Expect, that it was me. The new me.
The new me that I didn't choose. That I didn't want.
Two plus hours in the car, and I couldn't wait to get home, showered, and in bed. All I wanted to do was sleep. I wanted to sleep this nightmare away. Of course, that's not how it works, but at least I could find temporary physical, mental, and emotional relief while I slept.
The implant felt hard. Tight. Heavy. I wanted so badly to just rip it out. Every hour I second guessed my decision to get reconstruction instead of going flat. But I knew I would have been equally, if not more, miserable had I done that. I think. I don't know. I had few choices. And there was no right choice. No easy choice.
I felt so miserable. Nothing can quite compare to the shock and trauma.
There was a learning curve to taking care of myself post mastectomy. It was hard to move at all, without pain, even with the pain meds, so I had to rely on Sam and the kids for a long while, for a lot of things.
I did a lot of resting in bed, propped up on a large wedge pillow because it hurt too badly to lay flat. Leo did a lot of watching over me.
Sleeping was difficult. It was hard to find a position that allowed for restful, pain free sleep. Still, I was thankful for my awesome wedge system. A must for after a mastectomy and reconstruction.
For a long time all I could wear was button up pajama tops because I was unable to lift my arms over my head. My arm, shoulder, and chest muscles, especially those on my left side, were extremely tight and painful. Every day when I took a shower I had to do a set of stretches to help loosen them up and open up my range of motion. It was torture. But I did it anyway.
The drain was incredibly annoying. I hated it so much. The mastectomy bra had a clip on the side to clip the drain bulb to, and I had to take great care not to accidentally roll over on the tubing or pull on it.
I had to wear a lanyard around my neck in the shower so I had something to clip it to, and I hated that. Hated feeling it hit against my skin.
The drain was literally the worst, I couldn't imagine how other woman dealt with having more than one.
Sam helped me keep track of the fluid output of my drain. I was desperate to get it out.
You can typically get your drains taken out when the fluid is down to between 20-30 ML for two consecutive days in a row.
Thankfully, I was able to have my drain taken out on day 9. It had been a very, very long 9 days. If I had to go one more day with it in I was going to scream.
Drain out, off of all pain meds except some Tylenol or Excedrin every once in a while, I thought things would get easier.
They did, and they also didn't. Swelling was going down, and my actual incisions under each breast were healing nicely, but my bruising was getting worse.
And my right nipple got extremely raw and sore looking, and started to bleed. No one told me that would happen. I thought I was getting skin necrosis, where the tissue begins to die off. I was panicked. Turns out, even though it was awful to have to deal with, it meant good things, like tissues healing and rebuilding and that there was adequate blood flow to the area. I just had to give it time to heal. Fine. Ok. But you could have fucking told me that before so I could have been prepared for it. I didn't need that extra trauma. It was hard enough just looking at myself...adding in a raw and bleeding nipple was almost more than I could take. I would bandage it up to stop the bleeding, just to have the bandage rip off the whole top layer of the nipple and make it start bleeding again. It was an endless cycle for over close to two weeks.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. I continued to heal well physically, according to my surgeons. But I don't know....I guess my expectations were too high. I guess I never truly knew what to expect. I mean, I knew not perfection....but certainly something better than this?
Because there is literally no breast tissue on the left side, it's just an implant with skin over it, for months and months you could see rippling of the implant on the top inside. It made me feel incredibly distraught and even more self conscious about how I looked. I was told this may or may not get better with time. A great answer. Thankfully, a year out now, and it has gotten better. Not completely gone, but better. One thing to be thankful for I suppose.
And again, since it's just an implant on the left side, with no breast tissue to go along with it, it will always feel and look like an implant. Round, hard, unmoving, not able to be lifted or moulded within a bra. Placing an implant on the right side in order to "achieve symmetry" was a fucking joke. That side has natural breast tissue to go with the implant. So over time, as things continued to heal and the mesh became one with my body, the breast naturally started to droop to a more natural form. Which is awesome for that breast. Except now I have two breasts that look completely different, both in size, shape and droop.
I'm so tired of looking in the mirror and hating what I see. But that's my reality now. Sometimes I wish I would have just done a double mastectomy with reconstruction so at least everything would look the same. I'd have literally no feeling in my chest, but at least I'd be symmetrical. And then sometimes I wish I would have gotten a double mastectomy and just gone to flat so I didn't have to deal with implants at all. Again, no feeling at all in my chest, and it would completely alter how I look, but I wouldn't be worried about the risks of breast implant illness from having a foreign object in my body. I second guess my decision all the time. I had so few options, because of the size of my tumor and surrounding calcifications, and because of my size. No tummy tuck they could have done to use that fat, no extra fat anywhere else they could have taken and used in that breast to go along with the implant. All of my options sucked. I chose the one I thought the best at the time...but now I just don't know.
It's hard to not only cope with how I look, but also with how I feel. There is still pain. Random aching. Skin sensitivity on the left side of my left breast. Zero sensation of the left nipple and breast, except for knowing when there is pressure being applied. And that pressure often hurts somehow. At least I've gotten use to the implant heaviness now.
Over the past year, there have been SO many bad days. Like the first time I tried to go shopping for a new zip front closure bra. The male dressing room attendant telling me that Sam couldn't come in the room with me, and me, having to share with him that because of my mastectomy, I couldn't do it myself and needed his help. It was embarrassing. Then, the first time I tried to go shopping for a "normal" bra. The ladies at Victoria Secret asking me if I needed any help, and me, not wanting to show them my chest, declined. I just cried in the dressing room, miserable and alone, not wanting to look at myself in their huge, pretty mirrors, so upset because I couldn't get anything to work. Then again when I went shopping for a bathing suit. Store after store after store. Nothing. I lost count of how many times I've cried in dressing rooms. Then there is the day I tried on all of my dresses, only to realize I couldn't wear half of them anymore because my left breast is just a ball of implant and won't mould to the cups of the dress. And the day I wanted to book a massage, but realized I couldn't because laying on my belly puts too much pressure on my implant and it hurts.
And that's just the physical stuff. Mentally and emotionally, I don't think I've even begun to heal.
Ohhh but sure, I have had good days too....like when I could finally ditch the front closure bras for a more comfortable over the head sports bra because I could finally lift my arms over my head.
And then again, a few months later, when I, after months of searching, FINALLY found a "normal" bra that I could make work (I can never do underwire again, however). I bought it in 3 different colors.
I also finally found a swimsuit I could live with. Of course, every time I wear a bra or my swimsuit, I have to take a bra insert and use it to lift and pad my right side in order to achieve some resemblance of symmetry every time I wear my bra or swim top. I'm hoping I've done the job well, and from under a shirt, people can't tell.
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And then when I had family photos taken that fall, it was one of the first times I felt beautiful since my surgery.
Today, at just a day shy of a year out, I don't love what I see, I don't think I ever will, and that's difficult to cope with.
Not only do I have to deal with the lingering physical affects of treatment, but I have to deal with the ongoing mental and emotional trauma my diagnosis and treatment has caused. I have to deal with the trauma of undergoing a mastectomy and having implants and how it's changed the way I look and feel about myself. I don't ever get to go back to having natural breasts. Nothing will ever be the same as before. I can't ever put it all behind me. I have to live with all of this. Every day.
My only hope is that as time marches on, as I move forward, I won't always struggle as much. I wont hate my body as much. I can start to heal in some way. I can start feeling like a strong survivor who is enjoying life, instead of merely trying to make it through each day in one piece without breaking down.
All that said, I know I have a lot to be grateful for. Me voicing my struggles does not mean I am not grateful. I know not everyone gets to be a breast cancer survivor. Some don't get to see that day. I am thankful to be done with active infusion treatments. I am thankful to be able to reach a year of "no evidence of disease" and hope to continue that for countless years to come.
I am thankful. I just simply need to heal. But I don't know yet what that looks like, or how long that will take.
With love,
Mama Hauck
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