To the man on the train

Author: Anonymous

The idea for this post came about when I found myself sitting between several people reading an article about the ‘No Less a Woman’ campaign (in which I feature). I imagined myself having a conversation around some of the - upsetting - comments I later saw posted about the article.

Man on the Train

I was sitting next to you on the District Line last Wednesday, reading the Evening Standard over your shoulder. I know it was irritating – sorry. I just couldn’t help myself. I saw my topless photograph on page 11 in the article about ‘No Less a Woman’ - the collaboration by Stella McCartney and Laura Dodsworth to highlight breast cancer awareness. It’s not every day you see a picture of yourself half-naked in the newspaper! I blushed didn’t I? It sounds crazy, but there was this awful split-second before I realised that neither you, nor anyone else in the carriage would know that I was one of the three women in the article because our identities were not revealed.

I noticed that you looked at the images for a long time. It’s okay to be curious. We wanted you to know what mastectomy scars look like; to better understand the impact of breast surgery on women’s bodies. Sadly, not everyone gets to have neat scars and beautifully reconstructed breasts despite the wonderful advances in surgery. Not everyone can have a tattoo over their scar. Radiation treatment, for instance, can cause invisible, but long-term damage to the skin.

It didn’t cross your mind that you were sitting next to one of the women in the feature? You didn’t think I looked like I had breast cancer? It’s hard, but we all need to remember to try not to make assumptions about how people look, sometimes people can be ill, even when they look great. 

You can’t understand why I wanted to show my scars? To be honest, I would never have agreed to have a topless photo before I had breast cancer. I took my breasts for granted. I didn’t see them as emblematic of my womanhood and femininity. I was sad to say good-bye to them when I decided to have risk-reducing surgery but when a reconstruction failed, and I got cancer again, I was devastated. Around 1 in 8 women in this country will develop breast cancer and 11, 000 women still die every year. I heard cancer described as ‘sexy.’ I hope these images will help people to understand that cancer is not sexy and they will have a better appreciation of this disease. 

I worry that my daughter’s generation will struggle to develop a healthy relationship with their bodies if they are only surrounded by airbrushed images of idealised women. I worry that we are in danger of denying the truth of who we are if we carry on holding such unrealistic expectations, not just about our breasts, but about our bodies and the control we imagine we have over them. 

Please don’t call me ‘brave.’ I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. But if you must feel pity, turn that emotion into a verb – do something to help, even if it’s just making a donation to charity.

Were you shocked? If you were, then it gives you some insight into how I felt for a long time. Nudity is something of a taboo in our culture, but to bare an imperfect body, a scarred body, feels like the final taboo, one that I wanted to shatter by showing off my body in all its flawed glory. My scars might be hidden from you, but I see them and they tell the story of my body, of my courage and strength. 

 http://www.stellamccartney.com/gb/lingerie_section

Breast cancer awareness month: Finding myself again

Author: Mhairi


At the beginning of 2015 I was battling depression. It started off as post-natal depression after each of my three children were born, but then became a continuous presence in my life, fluctuating in intensity. I had reached a particularly low point around Christmas 2014. Then I found a lump in my axilla and a larger lump in my left breast. I have a medical background; I knew what this could mean so I started to plan my funeral. Then I told myself not to be so ridiculous. I was too busy to have cancer anyway.


Of course it was cancer. Well that’s one way to kick depression’s butt – have a life threatening diagnosis. I leapt into fight or flight mode – I had a purpose, a new identity. It was scary, but it was also quite exciting. I think I must be a bit weird. What was really weird was that I didn’t feel depressed anymore. A bit terrified, but not depressed. The fog that almost permanently occupied my brain lifted as I began to attend the many hospital appointments that come with a cancer diagnosis. I was calm and smiling – I was POSITIVE! (Oh how I hate that word in relation to cancer, but that’s another blog).


This sense of calm continued throughout the gruelling course of chemotherapy. That may have been because I just felt so ill and exhausted that I couldn’t string two thoughts together a lot of the time. It may have been because I was being showered with visits, cards, flowers, meals, help and love from my wonderful friends and family. People commented on how well I was doing, I was such an inspiration etc. etc. To be honest I felt a bit of a fraud when people said these kind things as I didn’t feel I was making that much of an effort in my ‘fight’ against cancer. Cancer and it’s treatment was happening to me and I wasn’t being brave, I had no choice but to just get on with it. I was being given excellent treatment by lovely and dedicated health care professionals. I was being amazingly supported by my family, friends and church. Even my children tried to behave themselves a bit better. All I had to do was lie on my sofa and grit my teeth through the awful side effects of the chemo. The feeling of having been hit by a bus was deeply unpleasant but I felt so cared for and carried that my mood remained stable; the depression hadn’t caught up with me yet.


Then I had my surgery. The really great thing about the operation to remove the cancer was that it would give me my long wished for breast reduction. The surgeon would do an axillary clearance and wide lump excision on the affected side, reconstructing my breast smaller but using my own breast tissue. A plastic surgeon would reduce the unaffected side to match. At 43, and having breast fed 3 children, the prospect of having incredible gravity defying boobs was quite pleasing. So I was very nervous about the operation but excited about the results.


I had the op, it went well, and I got home the next day. The day after that I felt like an emotional car crash. The positive had gone, the hope had gone, and I was full of despair. Despair is a strong word but that is how I felt. I knew that sometimes after a general anaesthetic it is not unusual to feel quite low. I hoped that that was the reason I felt so rubbish, and that I would improve again. Months of chemo brain meant that I hadn’t really been able to think deeply and properly process what had happened to me this year. Now, after the op, I was physically restricted but mentally agile and every confused and negative thought that screamed through my head chipped away at me bit by bit. I felt deep shame about my overweight body, and kept thinking about all those people who had looked after me during the surgery thinking badly of me. I was fat and ugly, freakish looking with my newly growing post chemo hair and no eyebrows. My breasts didn’t feel like they were mine, though they are very much more me than many women end up with after breast cancer surgery. I felt I had no purpose, there was no point. What was I going to do with the rest of my life? 


I felt that I didn’t know any more who I was. Before I was diagnosed with cancer I had been preparing myself for a major life change. The cancer meant that I could no longer fulfil the role I had been preparing for. Connected to this, a close friend died of cancer while I was having my chemo, and the sense of grief and pain I had over these two losses became increasingly hard to bear. And then there was the anxiety about the future – what if the cancer comes back or has spread beyond the lymph nodes? How would I ever learn to live with the uncertainty with any sort of equanimity? What if I didn’t survive the cancer? What if I did, and had to crawl through the rest of my life with this crushing sense of futility? The familiar fog began to descend.


Now THIS is a battle – I have to fight the negative thoughts and feelings that assault me and threaten to engulf me. I have to make tiny mental and emotional adjustments to a new normal day after day, trying to smooth the jagged edges of those chips. For me, my Christian faith plays a massive part in this along with the support of my family and friends. 


The thing that could kill me has given me identity, intense purpose, even privilege. Now it has hopefully gone I am feeling lost and insignificant. I’m actually feeling afraid of returning to the normality of everyday life without the regular round of hospital appointments. Once I have finished radiotherapy I am dreading not having the regular reassuring contact with the health professionals, especially my breast care nurses. And I fear that it is wrong to feel like this.


I need to fight against the temptation to be defined by my illness. I am not breast cancer, I am Mhairi. I just need to rediscover who she is. 

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Write for the blog! This blog is one of a series being shared on the Young Women's Breast Cancer Blog UK during October, breast cancer awareness month, but the blog is here year round. If you are a young woman in the UK who has/had a breast cancer diagnosis and you would like to be a part of this blog, please have a read of the additional information here.

Check your breasts

Breast cancer can happen to any of us - regardless of age. Information about how to check your breasts can be found on the Coppafeel and Breast Cancer Now websites.

Further information and support:

Younger Breast Cancer Network UK - an online chat and support group for women under the age of 45 in the UK who have had a breast cancer diagnosis.

Baldly Beautiful - a YouTube channel with make up demonstrations, created by Mac makeup artist Andrea Pellegrini who went through chemo herself in 2014.

Take A Moment - This is a group for women (all ages) who have/had breast cancer who want to explore, reflect on and express their feelings and experiences through photography. This is a link to the public page - to join the group, send them a message.

The Osborne Trust - Providing children of parents with cancer the opportunity to access time out recreational activities whilst their parents undergo operations and treatments

Jen's Friends - Free heart-shaped pillows for women (and men) with Breast Cancer. Designed to provide comfort and protection after a Mastectomy operation.


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Breast cancer awareness month: The Secret

Author: Anonymous

Can you keep a secret? I haven’t told anyone but a few weeks ago I let a complete stranger take a topless photograph of me. No, I didn’t go to a Burlesque club (don’t think they have much interest in women with one breast). And it wasn’t that one your surgeon takes before breast surgery (where do all those photos go by the way?) No. I am one of the women featuring in the photographer Laura Dodsworth’s collaboration with Stella McCartney to raise awareness of breast cancer – ‘No Less a Woman.’ Scroll down to the link, get a box of tissues and read the stories of the first four women. I’m too shy and scared to tell you which one is me.

I haven’t told my family, my friends, my colleagues or my boss that my photo and interview is on the Stella McCartney website. I did tell my partner. The irony of me being photographed half naked for all to see when I hide my scars from him was not lost on either of us. Nudity is such a massive thing in our culture. I won’t tell me family as they would be upset. My friends, colleagues and boss would be shocked. I am sure that there is very likely some clause in my job description that refers to not bringing my profession into disrepute, and anyway it’s not the first thing I want to tell my new boss (picture the scene!).

I would never been photographed topless before breast cancer. So why did I do it? The truth is that I don’t really know. Most of the stories that are used to raise awareness for breast cancer focus on what I call ‘silver linings;’ our bravery, our ability to inspire, to ‘still’ be sexy and beautiful despite breast cancer – of course we are! But what is less talked about is our pain, our loss and the fact that too many women still die too soon. Having bought Laura’s book, I liked that she wanted to celebrate this aspect of womanhood, to share our different stories about our bodies, our breasts. I felt like I became mute when I went through treatment for cancer but that I have found my voice again. And now that I have found it I want to shout from the rooftops. And I trusted Laura with the story of my body despite my fears.

On Monday the first stories will come down and four more women take the centre stage. My story will go off into the ether and that’s exactly how it should be. I am just one voice, one story. I am not special. We all know that there are far too many women like me, like us. Please share, but keep my secret safe.

http://www.stellamccartney.com/gb

 

Breast cancer awareness month: The light at the end of the tunnel

Author: Deb

In October 2013, I discovered a lump in my right breast. I was only 42 years old at the time. It was at the same time as the cancer storyline involving Carol from Eastenders. Unlike Carol, who seemed troubled and nervous when she attended her doctor for an examination, I never really gave it too much thought. I didn’t tell anyone about it except my husband. I was referred to the breast clinic at my local hospital and went along myself for the mammogram, ultrasound scan and biopsy. After having these done, I spoke to a doctor who said the lump was probably nothing to worry about, it was one of those things that women my age got. I was to return to the hospital a week later for the results. My husband came along with me but was asking why I needed to go for results, could they not just post them out to me? Whilst in the waiting room, I was playing games on my phone and showing my husband some funnies on it. I really wasn’t concerned at all. My name was called and I went into the consulting room alone expecting to be told all was fine. However, when I sat down, the surgeon asked if anyone had accompanied me to the hospital that day. She sent the breast care nurse to fetch my husband. When he came into the room I said I really didn’t like the sound of this. The surgeon had examined me and asked me to sit up on the bed and face her. I thought she was carrying out a visual examination of some sort. That’s when she dropped the bombshell and told me I had breast cancer. I remember bursting into tears and looking at my husband desperate for a cuddle. My right foot was shaking uncontrollably and he looked as if he was going to pass out. I just broke down. The surgeon said the good news about this was that they could cut it out. The nurses offered my husband a glass of water and I told them to take him away and give him a seat before he keeled over.

When I eventually gathered myself together, the surgeon asked me if I wanted to wait until after Christmas and New Year for the surgery so I could have my celebrations without pain and discomfort. I just thought well there’s no time like the present. Surgery was scheduled for the 18th December and I was to have a lumpectomy. I only told my mum and not my sister as I didn’t want to ruin her Christmas or have her associate Christmas with cancer. My dad was in a nursing home with MS and I kept it from him as I didn’t want to affect his health and I don’t know if he could really have taken it in at that stage in his illness. I remember going to my mum’s house to tell her with my husband and I was strangely calm. People told me later that they didn’t think it had sunk in properly. I had the lumpectomy on 18 December but had to have x-rays and some other procedure where they inject dye into the breast to identify the sentinel lymph nodes which would also be removed. After surgery, I felt stoned and happy and phoned my mum from hospital to tell her I was out of surgery and feeling fine, looking forward to getting home. We talked about it and said at least that was it all done and dusted now. I remember listening to the radio in the run up to Christmas when I went to the hospital to have the dressing changed. The words “it’s Christmas time, there’s no need to be afraid” stuck in my head. I took this as a good sign. I had asked the surgeon for the results and she said they weren’t back yet. Looking back I think she didn’t want to ruin my Christmas as she probably knew already.

In early January 2014, I returned to the hospital and was told that the breast would have to be removed along with the rest of the lymph nodes. I had expected this and had told the surgeon I was happy for it to be removed when they were going to do the lumpectomy. More surgery was scheduled for 29 January 2014. During this surgery, I had an expander fitted with a port. The pictures had shown the port as something unobtrusive which would sit at my side under my arm. However, the reality was that the port was a metal thing which would sit below where my breast had been and would dig into my ribs causing me severe discomfort for many months. This expander would be filled with water each time I attended the plastic surgeon so the skin could be stretched to accommodate an implant later. This was done by the plastic surgeon inserting a needle into the port through my skin. This was really sore and I dreaded these appointments so much. It was only months later that I discovered something called Emla cream. This numbs the area and would have made it so much more bearable. I’m really angry that I wasn’t saved this pain and discomfort and I recommend it to any woman going through similar treatment.

After the surgery, I was told that lots of lymph nodes had been removed and there was no further trace in any of them. Apparently, there had been a slight trace in two of the nodes that were removed during the lumpectomy. The next discussions were around chemotherapy and radiotherapy and all those effects.

My sister had been told by this point and said she saw the chemo as something zapping away any crap stuff that may be left. Fortunately I had met a girl on the ward during the second op and she had been diagnosed also and we decided we were going to be chemo buddies. We scheduled our chemo for the same days and roughly the same time so we could catch up with each other. As treatment progresses, it takes a lot out of you and your emotions can really tumble. About halfway through treatment, we lost contact a bit as we were both finding it difficult to cope. We’re now back in regular contact and good friends who meet up for lunch and a blether. It was important to me to surround myself with more positive people at this time which meant spending time with my mum, sister and my oldest friends. It’s amazing how my friends were with me. They would come across and visit and bring lunch for us all and make me tea as well. 

I finished chemo in June last year and radiotherapy in August of the same year. I attended my local hospital for the chemo and another hospital in Glasgow for the radiotherapy. I was so tired as my sleep was all over the place and I remember thinking that I just wasn’t going to be able to make it into Glasgow for the radiotherapy as I was so exhausted. It was so tiring travelling in the car. The nurses at the hospital were fantastic though and really helped me through it. There was also an amazing MacMillan nurse that helped me through that time. My mum was my rock throughout the whole thing. She would pick me up for all my hospital appointments and would be cheery with me which helped so much. The first day I went into the hospital, I just broke down because the word ‘cancer’ was plastered over the entrance and all throughout the entrance lobby. It really brought it home to me and all I could think was how the hell had this happened to me and that I didn’t belong in a place that treated people with cancer as that wasn’t me. The staff at the hospital were great and kept telling me that I would see me returning to my old self a wee bit at a time and they were right. I remember an advert on TV at the time for one of the cancer charities and that showed a lady putting her hair into a ponytail before going for a run. I remember thinking that I couldn’t wait for that to be me. 

Today I was able to go for a run in a local park with my dog and it was fabulous. I’ve also started college this year and I’m studying Counselling. I want to use this to help others who have gone through what I have.

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Write for the blog! This blog is one of a series being shared on the Young Women's Breast Cancer Blog UK during October, breast cancer awareness month, but the blog is here year round. If you are a young woman in the UK who has/had a breast cancer diagnosis and you would like to be a part of this blog, please have a read of the additional information here.

Check your breasts

Breast cancer can happen to any of us - regardless of age. Information about how to check your breasts can be found on the Coppafeel and Breast Cancer Now websites.

Further information and support:

Younger Breast Cancer Network UK - an online chat and support group for women under the age of 45 in the UK who have had a breast cancer diagnosis.

Baldly Beautiful - a YouTube channel with make up demonstrations, created by Mac makeup artist Andrea Pellegrini who went through chemo herself in 2014.

Take A Moment - This is a group for women (all ages) who have/had breast cancer who want to explore, reflect on and express their feelings and experiences through photography. This is a link to the public page - to join the group, send them a message.

The Osborne Trust - Providing children of parents with cancer the opportunity to access time out recreational activities whilst their parents undergo operations and treatments

Jen's Friends - Free heart-shaped pillows for women (and men) with Breast Cancer. Designed to provide comfort and protection after a Mastectomy operation.


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Breast cancer awareness month: A positive outcome

Author: Michaela


Everyone tells you to 'be positive' and' everything will be just fine'. I knew from the moment I found my lump that it wouldn't be fine; I think you just know.

But here's the thing, sometimes you do here a story about someone who got lucky when things could have been so much worse, and that is me. I hope my story can give someone in the early stages of this horrible journey some hope.

It was Mother's Day weekend and I'd been out with my mum and 2 sisters for ice cream and a weepy film. I got home to my husband baking cakes for me for Mother's Day and was told to wait in the lounge and DO NOT enter the kitchen! Love him! So I sat and caught up with the Facebook world. A work colleague who had recently finished her breast cancer treatment had posted something about checking your breasts. I NEVER check mine- because they are just lumpy and how could you possibly tell? I was horrified to find a very obvious lump which I cannot believe I hadn't noticed before.

The days that followed were just an emotional draining whirlwind. I was lucky to be seen by my GP and then the consultant within days. An ultrasound, core biopsy and mammogram were done and then an agonising 3 week wait for the results. In those 3 weeks I prepared myself for the worst. I was going to die and leave my two beautiful children without their Mum. My parents were going to lose their eldest daughter. Could my husband cope without me? Those 3 weeks of uncertainty were, without doubt, the worst 3 weeks of my life.

The results were as expected. I heard the words 'you have breast cancer' and the rest was a blur. What I didn't hear were the very positive comments that she made about how small the cancer looked, how the lymph nodes appeared to be clear. I had surgery 4 days later to have the lump removed and a sentinel node biopsy.

I felt devastated after the surgery. My lump was high up almost on my chest right on the edge of the breast. The scar I am left with is visible and if I'm honest, I hate it. I am not at a stage yet where I wear it as a battle scar to be proud of. Selfishly, I miss my nice shaped boobs and I miss being able to wear clothes to show them off. I don't think I will ever quite get over that part. Please don't judge me for that, I can't help it. I was most scared about having to have Chemo. I didn't want to lose my hair. I realise how pathetic and self aware I am, it's been a lesson in life that's for sure.

It's interesting how you learn so much about family and friendships at a time like this. I saw the pain in my husbands eyes and it made me understand how much he loved me. That had been something I'd doubted at times, but it was suddenly so real and clear. Seeing your Mum cry and say that she wishes she could have the Cancer instead of her little girl. That broke my heart- but I knew she meant every word. My Dad was a mess, he was so scared that he would lose me. And friends, interesting this. Some people you have been close to your whole life don't seem to know what to say, so they just don't say anything. That was very hard. Some friends, and work colleagues literally stopped speaking to me at all, instead talking about me to my husband. I know it's a hard thing to talk about, but from my experience, I know that I will always put my own awkwardness aside and make sure I speak to people. My family were amazing throughout; offering constant emotional support, practical help with childcare and cooking meals for us. A certain few friends now have an extra special place in my heart because of how they helped us through.

My results following surgery were as great as they could possibly be. A grade 2 cancer, only 18mm, all out with no spreading to the lymph nodes. The cancer was gone and best of all I did not need to have chemotherapy. Just 4 weeks of radiotherapy and 10 years of Tamoxifen. The radiotherapy was dull and a bit of a pain to get there every day but for me it was completely painless and I coped well throughout. Work were extremely flexible which helped too.

And here I am 5 months on, life seemingly back to normal, the nightmare of breast cancer hopefully a distant memory. Except it isn't for me, the reality is that I think about it every single day, that I am constantly scared I will get it again and not be so lucky next time. Everyone else around me has moved on and no one knows the mess my head is in. I've found I can't really talk to my husband about it as he always wanted to offer a solution, or tell me that I am being irrational. Which I know I am, but I just need someone to let me get the words out. I've decided to find out about some professional counselling, that way I can get the thoughts out of my head and friends and family can continue to move on and not feel I am being negative about my experience. I am awaiting the results of genetic testing now and hoping that a can of worms isn't opened from the results. Hopefully it is just me that randomly got this illness.

I know how very, very lucky I have been. Compared to many others I have literally had a brush from this terrible illness and have got away so lightly. Physically I am good, emotionally will take a bit more work! I want women to have hope that sometimes the outcome is ok, that if you find a lump early and act fast, the results are not always the worst.

X

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Write for the blog! This blog is one of a series being shared on the Young Women's Breast Cancer Blog UK during October, breast cancer awareness month, but the blog is here year round. If you are a young woman in the UK who has/had a breast cancer diagnosis and you would like to be a part of this blog, please have a read of the additional information here.

Check your breasts

Breast cancer can happen to any of us - regardless of age. Information about how to check your breasts can be found on the Coppafeel and Breast Cancer Now websites.

Further information and support:

Younger Breast Cancer Network UK - an online chat and support group for women under the age of 45 in the UK who have had a breast cancer diagnosis.

Baldly Beautiful - a YouTube channel with make up demonstrations, created by Mac makeup artist Andrea Pellegrini who went through chemo herself in 2014.

Take A Moment - This is a group for women (all ages) who have/had breast cancer who want to explore, reflect on and express their feelings and experiences through photography. This is a link to the public page - to join the group, send them a message.

The Osborne Trust - Providing children of parents with cancer the opportunity to access time out recreational activities whilst their parents undergo operations and treatments

Jen's Friends - Free heart-shaped pillows for women (and men) with Breast Cancer. Designed to provide comfort and protection after a Mastectomy operation.
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My new body

Author: Anonymous

Of the many experiences I faced during cancer treatment, one that sticks with me very distinctly is the experience of going to the hospital the day before surgery to be marked up.

During treatment for Breast Cancer, there are many times when you can feel a lack of dignity: there is a lot of prodding and poking of “the lump”; having an MRI involves lying on your front with your boobs hanging through some carefully places openings in the table; having the DIEP surgery, as I did, led to several appointments in which my plastic surgeon studied my breasts in great detail and grabbed at my tummy fat in an approving manner, pleased with the quantities he had to work with! However, throughout these experiences, I usually felt as if I was being treated as a human, my feelings were considered and everyone involved was doing their utmost to think of me as a person and the effects it was having on me.

Then came the “marking up”. I don’t know if this happens in the same way in all hospitals, but for mine I had to go in the day before surgery to have this done, and although I can understand the reasoning (to save time on the day of the op for what was a very long procedure) I can’t help but thinking there must be a better way.

“Marking up” involved exactly what it sounds like. A doctor with a large marker pen, writing on me showing where they would operate, marking out the area of tummy to be taken, the position of the blood vessels, which would be transferred with the tummy fat to keep my remoulded breast alive. The marking itself took about an hour after which I went home to spend a sleepless night worrying about what was going to happen the next day. On returning home, I spent some time looking at myself in the mirror, staring at the lines and markings, the large arrow pointing to my left breast, ensuring they would take the correct one.

For the first time in this experience, I felt that the medics had hit far wide of the mark. I didn’t feel like a human person, but a thing to be manipulated and worked on. This marking has scarred my mind almost as much as the ensuing surgery has scarred my body.

Marking Up

Matter-of-factly

she pulls out the marker pen

as if to jot down ideas from a group brainstorm,

or write a “NO PARKING” sign.

But the pen is for me.

I uncover my body and become her flipchart, her paper.

She draws around my nipple,

which once nourished my beautiful babies,

An action so intimate, yet so different from my husband’s loving touch

An arrow marks the side to be taken.

Across my stomach, dotted lines:

‘Cut Here’ marks show where they must take their clay to shape my new breast.

I stare in the mirror

Blank eyes look back

My body, once familiar

now looks like a paper pattern for a sewing project.

A new body will be formed.

I must say goodbye to the feel of my husband’s gentle touch, the sight of my child’s mouth suckling.

I am me, but not me

A year has passed since I had my surgery. Medically speaking it has been a success: the cancer was all removed; the reconstruction all healed well and looks pretty good. My head will take a little longer to recover. I still have days where I regret even having the reconstruction in the first place. I can look at myself in the mirror, but it still feels like it’s not me that is looking back.

I am taking small steps to take back my body again. I’m trying to exercise and have taken up yoga. The yoga classes, led by a wonderful teacher, have been the most useful way of getting back in touch with my body. I really lost faith in my body. I felt I didn't understand it, that it had let me down and I could no longer trust it. It was almost as if my body didn’t belong to me, it belonged to the plastic surgeon who created it. Over the past few months, I have started to build trust in my body again, to find out what it can do (and what it can't), to understand what it is telling me and to listen to it. I still miss my old body, but I’m heading in the right direction.

The day before results day

Author: Christina B

Flat, horizontal, numb. Sad chick has silently crept into the building filling my every pore with despair and apathy. Despite sad chick taking over I still have the failsafe default mom setting which causes me to drag myself out of bed, wake up sleeping son and make a pack lunch for him, whilst checking he has covered all bases of washing, brushing teeth, combing hair and creaming face in preparation for school. I kiss him goodbye and wish him luck for his athletic tournament later that day as he leaves the house bound for the bus stop.

Being sad takes up so much energy. It's draining. Why is is that today I'm not feeling more upbeat? I've had a lovely weekend and Sunday was textbook perfect, chauffeur driven to eat a delicious sunday lunch with my ex in laws so why am I feeling so rubbish?

I'm searching hard for feisty chick, the one that tells me I've kicked cancers butt and wears red lipstick and thigh high boots and attitude but where is she today? Ok so she's completely vacant..... Theoretical chick perhaps?

Let's break it down and look at why I'm feeling sad. Doh?! You have cancer you stupid cow no brainer. That's why you're sad.

"Get over it. "says a mean no bullshit chick voice in my head. She needs to bog off with her attitude, besides I don't actually have cancer now technically as it has been removed and is sitting in the pathology lab waiting for someone to look at the cell mutations after checking their emails, Facebook and having a morning coffee.

So I look into myself again searching for a logical reason for sad chick moping about all in me. Tomorrow is the day when I see my surgeon and he will give me the results from what they have removed. Depending on what they found in the lab (my histology report) will basically determine what treatment I will have going forward. Sad equals anxiety over future treatment. I'm nervous about finding out what further treatment I will need. " it's all part of the journey" and other meaningless cliches begin to take up space in my head.

The reality of the situation however is that chemotherapy may be needed which has a whole host of side effects from hair loss to mouth ulcers, flu like symptoms and generally feeling a bit rubbish. So I'm not looking forward to hearing that I need that, but if I reach out to my scientist chick she can reassure me that chemotherapy is a good thing as it rids the body of any potential stray cancer cells so in effect I should be grateful to have chemotherapy as it would also give some degree of peace of mind. I google chemotherapy but quickly tire of reading about the side effects after 2 paragraphs. Everything just seems such an effort today, like a upward hill journey when you are totally unprepared.

What tickles me is that people keep telling me how well I am doing. How positive and brave I am. I guess I don't really have a choice, shopping still needs to be done, cleaning and K's homework, school trips organised and washing and ironing done. Many days I want to shut myself in my bedroom and not come out. Nothing to admire about not getting washed and dressed until 3pm and watching Jeremy Kyle and ordering my son a takeaway for dinner. Nothing to admire about pretending to the outside world that you are busy sorting out "stuff" and you've "got this" so that you can lie on the sofa all day and hug yourself wearing a cosy fluffy dressing gown and miserable face.

I read somewhere that the reality of cancer is different from the image we try to portray. Yep they got that bit so right. Don't get me wrong some days I wake up and I'm pumped full of pink breast cancer positivity! One day I was so charged I tried to email Angelina Jolie to congratulate her on her difficult decision to have a double mastectomy on hearing that she had the BRCA gene. Today is no such day..... Today I'm searching for that sparkle, I think that sparkle is on the sofa with a duvet over me. It is a Monday after all.

The first time I looked at my mastectomy scar

Author: Christina B

 

So I’m back in my own surroundings and out of hospital, and it feels blissful. I only have to do one thing today — well, aside from the essentials like taking care of the wound and keeping up on my medication.

 

Today is the day I must look at my scar.

 

If I don’t, it’s defeat because it’s my body, and I need to know what lies below the dressings. I need to know what lies beneath.

 

In the hospital I had a brief flirtation with this when I looked at my reflection in the the bath tap, but I glanced away rapidly, not ready for what I would see.

 

Today though I’m ready, and I admit, my narcissistic tendencies are going to help me on this one. I undress first and get in the shower enjoying the scent of Soap & Glory shower cream. Clean, sumptuous and fresh. I spend time washing my skin, washing away the institutionalized smell of the hospital. It feels so good to be in my own bathroom, in my own bath.

 

Freshly bathed and dry, I turn slowly to the mirror and dart my eyes feverishly, knowing what I need to do. I look…

 

Once I look, I can’t stop. My eyes take it all in, and I stop in my tracks. I look at “it,” and many thoughts flash through my mind. It occurs to me that I actually went through with the mastectomy operation, and it was a success. That thought doesn’t stay long enough in my head, though, as vanity chick breaks out, and I’m looking at it from an aesthetic point of view, thinking how deformed and monstrous it looks. The reconstruction is high and wonky, and the stitches remind me of a sewing lesson when I was in primary school where we learned to do blanket stitching but you pulled too tight and your creation puckered. The whole reconstruction looks like it’s about to burst; it looks stretched, angry and raw. I notice, for the first time, stretch marks on my breast. Oh yes, and my nipple is in the pathology lab.

 

The vanity chick in me is getting way too much airtime. She needs to get off her perch and move out of my head. OK, time to get a new chick in my head to take a look. I’m searching for her. Scientist chick? I’m a medical miracle. I’m trying to convince myself to own feelings I don’t even have yet. Yes that’s it, I’m a medical miracle — what they’ve done is amazing really. I’ve had cancer cells removed from my body, chemically treated pig’s membrane attached to an expanding implant and then my original skin sewn back on. 2015 and this is where we’re at. Pretty impressive. The pig’s membrane holding the implant in place intrigues me; I remember when the surgeon told me the plan and the subsequent Google search I’d done that night. Let’s hope my body likes pork. (Given how much I love pork belly and barbecue ribs, it would be an abomination if my body rejected this breast. This chick loves pork.)

 

Anyway, I’m staring at the new breast. I’m doing some psychological “own it” piece one of the girls from my support group told me to do. “Feel it!” She said “Own it!” So I’m simply staring at the breast, coming to terms with it. I feel like I’m staring at someone else’s body. It feels so surreal; 72 hours ago I had a pair of breasts, and now I have one breast and a wound. It’s a wound at the moment, but I know in time it will be a breast. It’s a bit like when I was 12 and waiting for breasts to arrive. I had mounds then, but I knew I would have breasts eventually, and yes, they came and served me and a few admirers pretty well.

 

So yes, now I can tick looking at breasts off the tick list. It’s been 10 minutes, and I need to put on some clothes. I feel OK. Mission completed. I’ve looked, and I didn’t cry or vomit. Time to put on my Marks & Spencer sports bra and favourite leopard skin knickers.