NORTHERN EXPOSURE

I haven't looked at myself yet. Haven't been able to take a shower so it hasn't been an issue.

But then Dr. C. unwraps my mummy-esque torso. I stare straight ahead. As my compression vest and bandages fall away, I feel — what's the word? — Oh yeah. Free! My skin hasn't felt air like this in many days. But the pleasant sensation of having nothing constricting me is fleeting; it's replaced by a strange, awkward feeling. If I didn't know better, I'd think I had two water balloons tacked to my chest. Oh wait. I do. They're called Tissue Expanders (TEs). They're filled with 400ccs of saline a piece (and held in place by my recently moved chest muscle); the TEs job is to hold the space where I used to have breast tissue. They also stretch my skin. Eventually they will be replaced with implants. I refuse to look.

Husband hands Dr. C. a slip of paper with the cc's my drains have been outputting since surgery. Good news: The drains can come out. (Yippee! One step closer to stepping in hot water.) Husband distracts himself by looking out the window as Dr. C. quickly pulls each foot-long piece of tubing from my body. To be honest, I can't look at that either. (They really should get some paintings on these walls...)

Finally, all four drains are gone. Next he pulls out the teeny, tiny threads that connect my pain pouch to the center of my chest. I don't feel it. Probably because my chest is still numb.Then he applies antibiotic ointment to both incisions. My left one is 3 inches long and runs across the center of my "foob" at an angle. My right incision, on the cancer side, is twice as long; the scar snakes up under my arm. (That's where they took out the lymph nodes.) Then he paper-tapes gauze over both incisions and slips me back into my surgical vest.

I fumble with the fasteners; my hands are shaking. Avoiding looking at yourself creates a lot of tension, apparently. Husband comes to my aide, carefully zipping my vest closed. Husband noticing that I can't hook the eye on my vest? Definitely a moment.

So I am in heaven without those stinkin' swingin' drains. I feel like celebrating. (Can I have a drink yet?) Dr. C. says I can take a shower. Whew who! Back home, I grab my spa robe and head for the bathroom, then realize I can't take a shower without assistance. Duh. Can't lift my arms. Can't shut the shower door. And yeah, you know what is about to happen next: Northern Exposure.

Because now I'm in a predicament. I haven't yet seen myself naked, and I have to get naked in order to shower. And that means I have to be naked in front of Husband. For the first time. Without. My. Breasts.

I have to get past this hurdle.

Husband sets a plastic bench inside our walk-in shower; my soaps and shampoos are within reach on the floor. A hand-held showerhead is hanging above me. He turns the water on so it can start to get warm, then leaves me alone to collect myself. If only it were that easy.

I can't get my dressings wet but I can shower; I can't remove my bandages, but I can remove my vest. As the sound of the water beats down on the bench and the room begins to slowly fill with steam, I carefully unhook my security blanket, and the constricting pressure I constantly feel evaporates. I take a deep breath and look past the hazy mirror at my little "mounds." Well. Not so bad! I don't look as odd as I imagined. I'm not flat chested. There is something there — it's just covered in bandages. Appearance-wise, I can deal.

The weirdest part is how I feel. Wearing my surgical bra masks the artificial feeling of these dead weights that are temporarily a part of me. They are awkward and foreign. Despite my numbness, I can feel their fakeness. That is the part causing me the most anxiety.

There's a knock on the door. I open it, and find my husband holding a large black plastic trash bag, a towel — and a roll of duct tape. This does not look good. The potential crime scene does little to quell my growing angst. I close the door and tell him I'll call him when I'm ready.

But I'm never quite ready. I let another few moments slip by and still I don't feel any better about any of it. And I'm wasting water. So I bite the bullet and call him back in. And we begin the very delicate dance of preparing me for the most vulnerable shower of my life.

Off with the vest. Husband pauses just long enough to review the situation and announce, "They look good." We don't dwell. He continues on, wrapping the folded towel around my neck. I hold it in place while he cuts a hole in the top of the garbage bag and slides it over my head and shoulders. Then he duct-tapes the bag to the towel. I can reach my arms out from underneath the garbage bag (think Velociraptor) but trust me, it ain't pretty.

Husband assists me into the shower and I take my place on the bench. He points the hand-held water spout directly at my head. He'll never make it as a Barber, but he does spend the next five minutes carefully washing my long hair. I don't know whether to laugh or to cry; my emotions are as jumbled as the drops of water streaming down my face. I try my best not to let any moisture get through the garbage bag and onto my bandages. We are only partially successful. Next time will be better.

With my hair complete, I ask Husband to leave me alone for a few. He is reluctant; scared that I will slip and fall (even though I'm seated). Since I'm able to hold the shower faucet at hip level on my own, I want to relax a while and enjoy the warmth of the water.

The freedom I feel in this moment is nearly indescribable. I've made it through surgery. My drains are out. I've had a shower and my hair is clean. I've faced my most dreaded fear — looking at my new self in the mirror — and survived.

I may be sitting on a bench inside a plastic garbage bag, but I'm home, and I'm free (though not home free). I'm latching onto this slice of freedom and not letting go.

GET THIS PARTY STARTED!

One morning, just days before my surgery, I am sitting in my BFF’s kitchen. But this is no ordinary catch-up, chill-out visit. It’s much more personal, educational, important — dare I even say enlightening.

BFF has invited her friend "E." to join us for coffee. E. is a breast cancer survivor. She had a bilateral mastectomy and reconstruction — the same surgeries I am about to have. The entire process, from soup-to-nuts, start-to-finish, took her nearly two years.

That is a very long time.

I’ve known E. for awhile; we see each other at holiday and birthday parties (she and BFF have kids close in age). But I have never had a conversation with E. about breast cancer. Not that I didn’t have an opportunity; I saw her several times while she was undergoing reconstruction, and although I always made a point of asking how she was doing, she always made a point of saying she was fine. I never got the vibe that she wanted to talk about “it” — particularly at a party. And since E. makes a sinfully delicious dirty martini (complete with huge, juicy olives stuffed with bleu cheese), she would always then say, “Want a drink?”

It was soon after my diagnosis (in the same phone call, if I recall) that BFF suggested I call E. But I never felt comfortable picking up the phone; not exactly sure why. Maybe it was because E. never seemed open to discussing BC. Maybe it was because I didn’t know her very well. Or maybe it was because I was the one uncomfortable about opening up. (When my plastic surgeon’s office gave me the cellphone numbers of two women who recently completed their reconstruction with him, did I call them? Nope.) I guess I was afraid to hear all the details — the good, the bad, and the very, very ugly.

But as my surgery date creeps closer, I begin to crave face time with someone who has walked this path ahead of me. I want to benefit from their hindsight. Thankfully, during one of my repeated rants in the midst of all this cancer crap, my BFF had heard me loud and clear and took action, just in the nick of time.

So here we sit, we three women, and now I can’t stop talking to E. about breast cancer! I ask her everything I can possibly think of regarding pre- and post-mastectomy surgery and recovery. My notebook is crammed with questions, from the most mundane (if I can’t bear any weight on my arms, how am I supposed to drag myself out of bed in the middle of the night to use the bathroom?) to the more technical (what size were your tissue expanders? Did your surgeon use a biologic?), to the absolutely, utterly personal (are those [surgeon-created] fipples? Wow!). 

E. answers every one of my probing queries. And slowly but surely, my pre-surgery jitters begin their final fadeout.

The highlight of my meet-and-greet that will forever be seared into my brain is the fact that E. shows me her boobs. Yup, she shows me the money, honey. And they look freakin’ fantastic!  Here's the thing: When a woman is about to undergo the removal of two of her most cherished (and visible) body parts, finding another woman who looks just like she hopes to one day is nothing short of inspiring. Seeing how splendidly medical science can piece us back together (after using their many weapons of mass destruction in the OR to tear us apart) is not just reassuring, it’s downright life affirming. It makes me realize I will get through this. I will look whole again. If E. can do it, so can I.

So after explaining her entire reconstruction to me in great detail (including her complications, which I obviously have blocked out because I can’t for the life of me recall what they are), she casually reveals her "booby" prizes: two symmetrical, incredibly natural-looking, 36DD “foobs.” And they are amazing.

I have been so focused on the deconstruction part of my journey that I haven’t really thought all that much about my reconstruction, even though it is occurring at the same time, on the same table. Today, in the safety of BFF's kitchen, I allow myself to go there. Not only does the experience with E. help soften the mental blow of my mastectomies, but it forces me to truly face what I am about to go through. 

(Copyright ©2011 Rennasus)

These two hours, spent over a cup of hot joe with a woman I hardly know while she shares her most intimate details with me, are not just a bonding moment or a necessary evil or even a way for me to face my internal music; it's all of those things. But more importantly, these two hours are about the sheer force and monumental power of sharing a life-altering experience with another human being who knows exactly what I am feeling, fearing and denying.

And it is this moment that makes me finally ready to climb aboard that hospital gurney and get this party started. Surgery, here I come!