Getting Piggy With It
Surgery № 6 in 16 months is in the books. I now have two gummy bear like implants lined with pigskin. I may never wear a bra again. Supposedly the pigs’ tissue is “an internal bra” that cradles the implants like a baby and gives the 290cc’s of silicone extra support. This is yet to been seen because I’m like two pigs in a blanket strapped with bandages and a thick compression band. This type of reconstruction is creepy and sort of amazing at the same time, the lower part of the pectoral muscle is teased off the ribs and the pigskin tissue — which apparently looks like thick, white rice paper — is stitched to the bottom edge of the muscle. Shout out to porcine.
Who knew when I had Surgery No 2 on Dec 15, 2015, to remove the cancerous tumors I’d be getting piggy with it a year later. Obviously, this presents so many opportunities to exploit the situation with puns and jokes. But in all seriousness, I think my boobs are going through a rebrand of sorts. Pre-cancer they were 32DDs and very much in the way. Every shirt I tried on had to pass the test, “Does this make my boobs look huge?” After 16 chemo treatments, 28 radiation sessions, 6 surgeries and a 5-year sentence of hormone therapy which is like one big hot flash and leg cramp — the small, perky boobs is the carrot I’ve been chasing.
I’ve got big plans for Wilbur I and Wilbur 2 (too easy). Spaghetti thin tank tops for Kevin and Bacon (overused). Not looking like I’m pregnant in loose fitting sundresses for Patsy and Swine (all I hear is my mom signing). Goodbye bread loaf, oh hello ONE jog bra for Piggy and Sue (not loving it). Triangle bikini tops all summer long for Piggy and Smalls (might be the winner).
I’m clearly losing sleep over this since it’s 2:47 a.m. the day after surgery and I’m watching the clock so I can pop my next pain med and dream up new names for my new boobs.
Oh the irony, when I was in eighth grade I desperately wanted boobs to balance out the braces and boyish hair. When they sprouted in no short supply and seemingly overnight in 9th grade, I’ve cursed them ever since. As a high school cross-country and track runner with a small frame, they were painfully noticeable. All my guy friends would cheer, “Go Hills” or “The Hills are alive” as I run quarter repeats around the track. When I was at the University of Washington, I’d step on the starting line with a row of flat chested 1,500 meter runners and looking at their tiny sports bra uniforms while I opted for loose jersey. Any weight I gained after competitive running when straight to boobs often bumping me up a size. Don’t get me started about how incredibly overgrown and heavy they were when I was pregnant (3 times).
Now, I lay on the couch in the glow of the Christmas tree lights feeling happy that I have small boobs. Happy for everything, really. This time last year I was just finishing chemo and I had no hair, eyebrows, or eyelashes. My face was covered in sores and the inside of my mouth as well. I was exhausted. Emotionally I was spent and so was my family. I said “Fuck” two times on Christmas Eve, which my kids still remind me.
Albeit, now my hair is curled tight and looks a little like Alice Brady. But I’m here. I’m not bald. My girls don’t look at me with big sad eyes and add tiny rips of paper to the Worry Jar. I now have the energy to decorate the tree the way I want it. Food tastes delectable and savor bites of a Muenster Grilled Cheese browned in butter. I’m feng shui’ing the shit out of the kids’ rooms and closets. Weaned from two times a week housecleaning. Taking my “middlest” as Raffes calls her self on dates. Playing Horse with Sawyer. Driving to San Diego with the family for lacrosse tournaments, whereas last year I was stuck in bed. I’m doing lots of laughing, dancing, playing, and enjoying my kids. Giving more to Bryce so there’s space for him and space for us.
I’m going to embrace Piggy and Smalls as I run down stairs without holding anything and wear button downs without pinning the gap. #grateful
