NORDSTROM RACK

So what are you supposed to wear after a mastectomy? You can’t raise your arms over your head, so pullover tops are out; that means zip-up or button-down shirts are in. Most of the shirts in my closet are body-hugging pullovers with a lower neckline. (I never noticed that before. Funny, the things that pop up when your boobs are getting lopped off.)

I figure I'd better stock up on a few easy-on/off shirts. You know, just a couple of things to make me look presentable post-surgery. (As much as I’d like to wear my bathrobe to my plastic surgery appointments, I don’t think my husband will let me out of the house in it  — even though it’s the spa robe he bought me for Christmas, in the most dreamy shade of pale sage green.)

(copyright 2011 TheBigCandMe)

And so begins My Shopping Spree from Hell.

Since there's no need to spend a ton of cha-ching on these interim clothes, and because I still want to look quasi-cute, I head over to Nordstrom Rack. I comb through the store with all the determination of a tried-and-true shopper in search of a sale, leaving an audible trail of hanger click-click-clicks in my wake. I focus specifically on shirts and sweaters with buttons, snaps and clasps — though patterns, ruffles and layered materials also come into play. My strategy? Find anything that will distract the casual roaming eye from the fact that my chest is literally under construction.

The shirt selection is actually better than I anticipate, and this strikes a pleasurable (and familiar) chord in my psyche. There really is nothing quite like retail therapy. I’m rather enjoying my little shopping foray. I find myself falling — ever-so-slowly — into a kind of hypnotic trance as I sift through the sales racks. And it's taking my mind off my surgery. Eventually I look down and see an enormous pile of colorful shirts in my cart. Wait. What just happened here? I check the clock on my cell phone. I’ve been in this store for almost 2 hours. Whoa. 

I notice a dull headache coming on, probably because I haven't been drinking any water. My throat feels scratchy and dry. I hear a baby start to cry. Then a woman arguing with her teenage daughter. The noise level is crescendoing. The air feels stiflingly warm. I rummage through my cart and return just about everything I've taken painstaking time to select. I hang my returns in the general vicinity of where I found them and decide to keep seven items. I rush to the checkout and am floored to see there's a long line. Man, I really need to get out of here. 

My eyes start darting around the store, as if looking for a fire exit. A ringing cell phone startles me; a woman answers, talking rapidly in a language I don’t even recognize. I feel a swell of anger building up and just then, the clerk shouts out, "Next!" She smiles. I ignore her (though I do help her take my garments off their hangers).

  

I pay for the purchase, cram my credit card back into my wallet, grab the bag and make a fast dash for the door. Once outside and away from the crowd, I begin to feel like I can breath again. But I notice the air is still hot and heavy. I open my car door, roll down the windows, slide into the seat and start the engine. And then it hits me.


I am on the verge of having a panic attack. 

This realization floods my eyes with tears. But why so much anxiety? Why am I crying? Is it because I wasted too much time shopping when I should be doing the 100 other things I need to get done before my surgery? Or is it because I spent too much money on clothes I don’t really like, didn't even try on and will probably need to return because they won't fit or will look hokey or matronly or just plain dull?

It literally takes the entire 15-minute car ride home for me to realize what's really going on.

I’ve just been on my first Mastectomy Shopping Spree, buying tangible items to disguise the fact that in less than 48 hours, I will no longer have breasts. Dayum. If that’s not cause for a panic attack, I don't know what is. (The fact that I chose Nordstrom Rack to purchase shirts for my lack of a rack? Well, that's just good old-fashioned irony.)

DECISIONS, DECISIONS

Vegas did a number on me. (OK, it wasn't Vegas that did it — it was the possibility of needing a double mastectomy.) I am on edge, on the verge of crying, and short-fused. It's a bad mix. I need a solution. Fortunately, Dr. A. is true to his word; he calls Dr. C., the plastic surgeon, over the weekend and I am fast-tracked into an appointment  on Tuesday afternoon. My BFF accompanies me to take notes. 

I like the guy instantly. He asks me to begin with my list of questions because he says he can tell from what I ask how informed I am about breast reconstruction, and this allows him to tailor his answers specifically to me. I love the approach; it makes me feel more in control. He's also very easy on the eyes. (OK, so that's not why I chose him but it's not such a terrible side benefit, is it?) The night before my appointment, I comb through The 10 Best Questions for Surviving Breast Cancer (it’s more like 200 questions, actually) and create a long list. Dr. C. patiently listens and carefully answers every one of my questions. He spends nearly two hours with us. 

Though I have just met him, I decide that if it comes down to needing a bilateral, this is the man to make me look whole again. My BFF feels the same way. (Yup, she agrees he is adorable and the right guy for the job. It's good to have friends with your best interests at heart!)

The Possible Plan (should I need it): Immediate bilateral reconstruction using tissue expanders with a later surgery down the road to exchange the expanders out for silicone implants. (Silcone had issues back in the 1980s, but Dr. C. assures me they are very safe now and prefers them over saline because they are the most natural looking.)

I am thrilled to have my surgical team in place. Now I can focus on figuring out what kind of surgery I need so I can get this cancer out of me. I've been very patient up until today. Now I want it gone. 

The next day is my MRI. I am claustrophobic, so I have to mentally get past this. A technician has me lie face down, with my boobs hanging through holes in the imaging table. (Do the humiliations ever end with breast cancer?) The machine makes clanking noises while I stay perfectly still. I shut my eyes and imagine I am hiking on my favorite trail in the wide-open spaces. I keep my eyes closed the entire time. Fooled even myself; I nearly fell asleep.

I arrange to pick up copies of the MRI films two days later and then take them to my surgeon Dr. A., who gives me the bad news: it's clear from the MRI that due to the size of my mass (3 centimeters), a lumpectomy will, in fact, leave me disfigured. So one week after hearing that I might need one, I bite the bullet and give the go-ahead for Dr. A. to schedule a bilateral mastectomy. 

Dr. A. and Dr. C. will work side-by-side in the operating room; Dr. A. removing breast tissue and any necessary lymph nodes, Dr. C. starting reconstruction by placing tissue expanders under my pectoral muscle to keep my skin inflated while I heal (and eventually filling the expanders with saline over a period of months, then another surgery to swap them out for permanent silicone implants). And this is all going to happen in less than two weeks. 

VEGAS MELTDOWN

To put you in the mindset: I'm in Las Vegas with my two BFFs for a rhythmic gymnastics meet (the daughter of one of my BFFs competes). I am nervous about my upcoming lumpectomy, so this weekend is a welcome distraction. The first rhythmic event is tonight, and we're all really excited. After breakfast, we spend the day walking around The Strip and end our outing at Serendipity, where we wait 45 long minutes for their famous (and fabulous!) frozen hot chocolate. 

We return to our hotel to shower and change. And since I am the official "makeup artist" today, I also apply eyeshadow and lipstick and sparkles to my friend's daughter's pretty face. In the adjoining room, I hear my cell phone beeping. It's now 5:30 PM on a Friday night and my surgeon, Dr. A., has left a voicemail. This is very odd. I've got 10 minutes before we have to leave for the competition. I rush to call him back.

Good news/bad news. He has presented my case before the hospital's tumor board and has called to tell me the consensus is in: I need an MRI of both breasts before I can have surgery. And that's not all. Due to the location of the cancerous mass, my nipple must go. Which means more than half my breast must also go. Which means I likely will need a mastectomy — not the lumpectomy I am scheduled for in five days.

Dr. A. and I had previously discussed this very possibility at our last appointment, and I told him then that if I wind up requiring a mastectomy, I want a bilateral. Remove 'um both, remove as much future worry as possible. And give me some matching, reconstructed boobs. Now he agrees this is the best plan of attack, but the MRI will tell us precisely what we should do. So I need to get that scheduled. In the meantime, will cancel next week's surgery.

My head is swimming. My BFF knocks on the door to say we have to leave. I plead for five more minutes. (I realize this makes the kid potentially late, but I don't know what else to do.)

Dr. A. also adds that I need to see a plastic surgeon for a consultation. Can he recommend anyone? I ask. He gives me two names. But something doesn't feel right. I pause, then say, "If this was your wife, who would you send her to?"

"Does your health insurance let you go out of network?" Yes. "Then if it was my wife, I would send her to Dr. C. He's an artist. We've worked together before. I'll call and tell him about your case, but you give him a call on Monday." 

In the span of 15 minutes, I've gone from mentally preparing for a lumpectomy to probably needing a double mastectomy and a plastic surgeon. This is way too much to process.

Yet my little entourage awaits. So I swallow my fear, force back the tears and step into the hotel elevator. I smile at our little gymnast, but my BFFs can see there's trouble in my eyes. Somehow, we get through the next hour talking about routines and hula hoops on the way to the meet before leaving her with her coach and teammates. We have exactly one hour before the festivities begin. One hour to cry over my beer and dissect my need for a bilateral mastectomy in a nearby pub.

The next day is spent in a stifling hot, noisy gymnasium watching dozens and dozens of  girls perform complicated floor routines to very repetitive music. We are sitting in a crowd of parents and children — certainly not an environment where I can break down the way I need to. I probably should have stayed at the hotel and ditched the meet, but the thought doesn't occur to me until I'm already inside the crowded gym. Besides, it feels better to be surrounded by my friends than be alone with my thoughts. So I suppress my emotions and put on my  "everything's OK" game face. But everything is so not OK.

But eventually I crack. It happens before the final event. I have a hot flash and feel like I'm about to implode from the heat. I can't find enough air to breath, and can no longer hold "it" in. I leave the gym abruptly, wade through the throng of spectators and slip outside where the air feels cool. And I start walking. I pass a playground with seating, but there are kids playing, and I can't deal with their screams. It is I who wants to scream. 

I wander over to a senior center next door and sit down on a cold bench. I'm finally alone — and so numb and overwhelmed I can't even cry. I just sit there and stare into space. 

I needed this weekend away with my best pals before I head into surgery. And if I had waited until Monday to return the surgeon's call, I might well have had the carefree time I was envisioning. But once that fateful call was answered, all bets were off; I lost emotional control. And the road trip quickly morphed into an exceedingly stressful, solitary nightmare on wheels. I call my husband. I just want to come home.