Tagged: fat grafting

What it means when I call you family

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Call it a strength or a weakness, but because of its very nature, this blog is inconsistent.

It is here so that I may record what the world looks like through my cancer lens. In the first year, pretty much everything I saw, felt and did had cancer at its core. In the second year, I slowly edged back towards a fragile sort of normality. And now at the start of my third year since my diagnosis, I can honestly say that I have gone whole weeks without feeling like I’m viewing the world through the eyes of someone who had, or still has, cancer.

I say this as a means for accounting for my long silence. It’s been a happy, busy, eventful silence. I think in this blog’s case, the silences are the periods I should be aiming for.

Right now, the thing that keeps me coming back here is my breasts. Or lack thereof, really.

When we last spoke, my surgeon had dropped the bombshell that he didn’t think that much could be done to rebuild my breasts. What was left was just bone and scar tissue. And we were trying to treat it with injections of fat to build it up and reconnect it to my blood supply as best we could, but we thought my skin was stretched too thin to allow real breasts to become a possibility.

Because I remain a staunch believer that everything is a process and that nothing is finite, I kept on going with the fat grafting.

Along the way, I had a nasty incident where my body rejected that grafted fat and I wound up on a new surgeon’s operating table just before Christmas. It sounds bad, but it was good really, because Dr Hyphenated (my name for him, not his) looked upon me with fresh eyes and told me not to give up. He is my “second opinion guy” and long may he remain so. He is a very good man.

And then in January something nice happened. The fat settled and my flesh turned from thin pale purplish grey to soft warm pink and my first surgeon Dr M looked again and said maybe we can slip a small implant in and that takes us up to pretty much now.

We’ve done it and they’re in – two smallish implants that are so far looking grand. They are much the same size as my breasts were to begin with, although more gravity-defying of course.

I am sending all the love that I can muster their way. Telling my body to nourish and accept them. It will be another two or three months before I can give a sigh of relief and say girls, you’ve survived so for the meantime I’m just trying to be good.

Take my antibiotics. Wear my hideous oversized compression bra. Don’t lift heavy things. Send love.

The last one is my own initiative, but I stand by it. Apparently if you think healing thoughts about a body part, you actually send more blood supply in that direction. Someone’s scientifically shown that. So that’s good enough for me.

Which takes me to today’s metaphor. It’s about sending love.

I know a whole lot of you have been waiting for the big wedding post. March 15 was the day. And it was pretty much perfect.

Coming up to the wedding I kept wondering what I should say. And I kept coming back to the same thought. That there are really only two times in life that all the people you love most are around you.

The other one? It’s your funeral.

In the end I couldn’t say much, I was too overwhelmed. But basically what I said and meant was that every single person who attended our wedding was now family.

I felt like, just as I am now concentrating all my love on two teardrop-shaped lumps of silicon resting under my pectoral muscle in my chest, for one beautiful evening the love of 120 people was concentrated on Charlie and I.

It was the best therapy and treatment I could ever have.

I love you all more than words can ever describe.

xx

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These incredibly gorgeous photos were taken by the extremely talented Brent Winstone who attended as a guest and could not have captured these candid and emotional moments more perfectly.

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Storm in an A Cup

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It’s been so long since I wrote that people have been asking me if I’m all done.

Erm, no.

I’ve been telling people that my silence has been caused by the perfect storm of work, surgeries every 5-6 weeks, and trying to arrange a renovation and a wedding at the same time.

But the truth? The reconstruction process has actually been a bit heartbreaking. And I actually didn’t feel like blogging about it.

I’m now in for round three of the fat grafting process. Round three? I told myself there wouldn’t be a round three. But then, I also told myself that I’d have great (fake) breasts at the end of it.

There have been a lot of lies floating around.

After round two, I went to see my surgeon. The plan: to say right, Sir. We are done with fat grafting. Give me my implants pronto because I want nice breasts for the wedding next March.

And his response. Sort of squirmy. Awkward.

Something along the lines of your scarring is worse than we thought. Your chest wall skin is stretched too thin to accommodate breast implants. But the good news? The “experimental” fat grafting seems to be going well and we’re confident that you can get a good A cup out of it.

Fricking A cup? A CUP???

I’ve been through this many surgeries and this much treatment and this much bullsh*t and you’re offering me an A CUP?

It was all I could do not to collapse in a blubbering heap on the surgeon’s floor.

I know I should feel lucky just to be here at all, but bloody hell, I promised myself breasts. Good breasts.

The little girl inside of me had her red balloon, her teddy bear and her lollipop wrenched off her all at once. My bottom lip quivered for two days.

An A CUP!!!

But then I did what I always do, and rationalised. And compromised. And I bought myself my first ever WonderBra (A cup!) so that maybe, just maybe after round 3 I could take my crappo little A cups and squeeze them into some pubescent notion of cleavage?

So far, by the way, I’m not filling the A cup. I’m aspiring to the A cup.

And my fake foam breasts still fool everyone into thinking everything’s OK. And now they are the carriers of false hope. When I wear them it’s like they’re mocking me. They’re saying like them? These are the fake breasts you can only dream of!

Bitches.

And then you know what else has been happening? Pink Fricking October. Pinktober. Shudder.

I’m here to tell you that the breast cancer community (or at least the ones I know) don’t bloody like Pinktober.

It’s not that we’re not pro fundraising or awareness. No, no. What pisses us off is that Pinktober is the month of platitudes. Where big corporates donate peanuts to a charity, turn a product pink, some idiot buys the product and everyone feels like they’re somehow saving the world. (I can see my advertising brethren backing away from me right now saying that’s our clients you’re panning. Keep your voice down, angry lady. Sorry, but it’s true. You’re helping the economy, yes. But curing breast cancer? Doubtful).

Or, worse. Some idiot decides to create some Facebook meme where women write something cryptic on their wall… Like where they put their handbag… And it’s meant to be some “all us chicks are in this together and those silly boys just don’t get it”… And I guess maybe they think some donation fairy somewhere flicks a few bucks into a research charity? Maybe?

GAAAAHHH!!! There is no donation fairy!!!

Sorry. Control the righteous indignation. Control it.

But guess what? There’s an even dumber event on the calendar. Ladies, meet No Bra Day.

Yep, you guessed it. You can forego the bra in celebration of your fabulous titties and again, that magical donation fairy will flap her shiny wings and breast cancer is cured!!!

Slow clap.

So I’m here to tell you, oh pack of loose titted geniuses, that your no-titted post mastectomy brethren are plotting to hurt you.

Get a clue, brainiacs. Flapping your perfect love bags in our faces is not making us feel loved, or supported. It’s just rubbing in our faces what we don’t even have.

Wow, I feel so much better. This blog is way cheaper than therapy!

So, yeah, that’s where I’m at. I’m sitting in a day surgery waiting room during Pinktober dreaming of my new A cups. Someone will knock me out cold any minute now (and charge me $800 for the privilege) and maybe, just maybe, I might look a little less like a ten year old boy when I wake.

Wish me luck. And boobs.

x

P.S. Why the photo? These are a few of my favourite things right now. A mighty fine little skull-shaped bottle of tequila and a little Day of the Dead bride and groom, lovingly bought for me by the wonderful Mark and Kara in Santa Fe. I thought they might cut through the grumpiness of this post a little!