Why Reconstruct?
In the early days that followed my mastectomy I would inadvertently shock myself most mornings with the pre-shower glimpse. The scarred, concave and asymmetrical part of my chest was where my small but significant right breast used to be. ‘I’ll just get a reconstruction’ was my little soothing throw away line to self that always followed the breathtaking disbelief. I don’t think I ever thought through or really knew what that actually entailed, or why a reconstruction was actually important apart from the obvious.
It was never an issue of weight redistribution to prevent back pain. I have never had large enough breasts for that to be a factor in my choice. I don’t think it was to mend any major bereavement for having lost something dear to me either. Right before I lost one of them, my breasts were simply my breasts. I wasn’t always this au fait with them if I’m honest with myself. You could say the trajectory of my relationship with them over the years has been rather fickle I guess. In the teenaged years I wished for them to feature more prominently and spectacularly (come to think of it, this wish largely outlived the teenaged years and continued well into my early 20’s). The obsession for larger breasts became less of an issue as I became older, and by the time I’d met my life partner in my late 20’s, I learnt to appreciate them almost as much as he did, needing them less to be what they weren’t and coming to accept them more for what they were. They were just a part of me most days and at other times they were quintessentially sexual and irresistible weapons at the height of passion. What a gift!
By my early 30’s after the birth of my first child they’d morphed into pretty amazing life giving nourishers to my baby. They were literally heaving compared to how I knew them, and while this should have brought me the joy I’d forever longed for, they instead brought stinging needle like pain whenever my baby latched on. Engorged, sore and seemingly not my own (but my baby’s and the wider general public’s) was how they had evolved. I was never one of those earth mothers who felt the all consuming maternal ecstacy some others felt during the nursing moments. Although I marvelled at the thought of such an amazing biological function, I also longed for my body back for myself, to wear normal clothes again, to reclaim my breasts as my own. Subsequently I went on to have two other children whom I also breastfed. Mastitis featured twice, and by my third child I was hooking myself up to an electronic milking machine and expressing my own milk to increase supply. Not my idea of glamorous.
I stopped breastfeeding my third child in response to my diagnosis of ductal carcinoma. It was then that my right breast took on a whole other persona, one I’d never really imagined – diseased, potentially with the capacity to kill me.
I had very little time to contemplate the mastectomy which, in hindsight, I’m grateful for. When my surgeon told me my breast couldn’t be saved, I swiftly went into ‘where do I sign’ mode and couldn’t see any reason to mess about. It was a no-brainer in my view. I wanted that sucker gone and I just felt relieved that this was my potential get out of jail free card. I had three kids to think about. I was grateful for a plan and I took it. I could have an MRI on my left breast in six months and if given the all-clear I could opt for a reconstruction of my right breast. Sorted.
It took a few days for me to look at my scar. I was imagining something horrific. When I looked at it through one apprehensive eye for the first time in the hospital shower I was surprised. It was neat, clean and tolerable. It was ok comparatively to what I was expecting. I could never imagine showing it to my partner however. I wanted him to have the old image of the complete me in his mind. I didn’t want this to be the new frightening one. I didn’t want this to marr his vision of me in his mind from this moment onwards. What if this would turn him off being intimate with me? Afterall, now half my body looked androgynous. Worse. I had no nipple, just a horizonal scar.
I’m not sure I mentioned that my partner is world class, by the way. If there were Olympic games for partner’s of women with breast cancer he’d be hogging the podium, hand on beautiful heart, clutching the gold. He’s an absolute keeper. My best friend and touchstone. He suggested to me shortly after my mastectomy that I might surprise myself and decide never to have a reconstruction, and that would be ok too. I thought he was a bit mad, I knew I’d want a reconstruction, as loving and genuinely accepting as this comment was. As the weeks passed I parked all thoughts of the next step. I just needed to heal, come to terms with my very brief encounter with breast cancer and catch up psychologically to what I’d just experienced. I did not require any further treatment, my cancer was contained, I was incredibly lucky.
One of the main effects of losing a breast for me was the loss of body confidence. I really looked no different to others when wearing a prosthesis however I realised that my complete womanhood did have a great impact on how I carried myself as a person and ultimately how I perceived myself professionally and personally, even if this was largely subconscious. Shortly after realising this, I joined the BCNA online network and thought I’d peruse the reconstruction section. I found it totally overwhelming. I really had no idea about what reconstructions entailed and I didn’t know where to start researching. It all seemed too much to bear, it was the last thing I wanted to embark on. The idea of heading back down the surgery route seemed way to close to home, completely daunting and not straight forward no matter what your circumstance. I understood why women didn’t have reconstructions for years after the loss of a breast. It felt like I’d exposed myself to this next step way too soon. I simply wasn’t ready.
I’m still not ready, its only been 2 months since my diagnosis. I wear a temporary prosthesis and for the moment, it gets me through the day. I can be happy and focus on other things. I can view my scar in the morning with less of the shock and more of the pride that comes with having a battle scar. It feels more hard core than anything else really. I’m starting to get why people never reconstruct. I never thought I would.
It leaves me with one last problem however. My sex life. It’s changed. My partner has not changed. He remains crazy about me and his sexual drive appears unscathed by this experience. I’m lucky. Suffice to say that I still have not shown him my scar. My partner lovingly tells me that he will see the scar when I’m ready to show him. I would like to enjoy sex fully naked and unemcumbered by self consciousness as I have been before now. I just can’t. Although it’s early days I find this really difficult to overcome. I now realise how important sex, free of hang-ups, was to me and I really miss it. I wonder if this is the clincher for me to decide that a reconstruction definitely needs to take place. I never thought my sex life would feature as that important in deciding upon this. I guess time will tell. For now I will just be…..
