I had reached the ripe old age of twenty five years old when I had to have a bilateral mastectomy due to some kind of persistent infections. One doctor explained there were four or five different bacteria but couldn’t give me specific causes of these breast infections. I wasn’t producing milk but I did have a toddler about, so I didn’t see how it could be mastitis but that is how another doctor described it. The only relief was with my second pregnancy. No infections and no lumps.
I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl and after my breasts dried up the infections started again. I was on and off cipro (the only antibitotic that worked) and demerol for the next couple of years.
One of the many attempted solutions to these infections was to make an incision two inches long and two inches deep. I had a nurse come daily to pack the wound as it had to heal from the inside out, if not it would create a pocket for more infections.
The doctor told me I can try to ride it out and hopefully these infections will stop in the future or I could have a mastectomy. There was no guarantee that these infections wouldn’t spead to other parts of my body and the doctor could not tell me precisely what was happening. I opted for a bilateral mastectomy followed by reconstructive surgery.
The day before my surgery my new boyfriend took me to a Blue Jays game as a distraction. I had an active infection in the very wound that had to heal from the inside out. My boyfriend and I were enjoying the game but were getting a whiff of something putrid. As it turned out the pressure from the infection burst through a small part of the healed incision and let some puss seep out. It was so disgusting and smelly.
The day of the surgery I was so nervous but I didn’t want to keep getting sick. I do think, though, I underestimated how I would feel about losing my breasts. I needed a lot of support for the first couple of weeks which came from the Red Cross and social services, not my parents or anyone else in my family.
The day come for the staples to be taken out. It would be the first time I saw my bare chest where my breasts used to be. It looked like a couple of zippers going across a dents in my chest. I broke down, I cried the whole time the nurse worked on the staples. That is a vision that will never leave me.
I had to wait eight weeks for the wounds to completely heal before they could start reconstruction. This was because I was getting implants and not using my own fat and tissue. I would have had to gain at least twenty pounds which I was not able to do. WIth implants they had to stretch my skin out to have enough room for them. The device they used to expand my skin was called an expander. It had to be filled once a week until the desired size was reached. Those were then replaced with more permanent implants. The final step would be to build and tattoo the nipples.
Well, I waited the eight weeks and when I woke up from that surgery I was informed they had found another infected lump. I felt defeated. Another round of antibiotics, another eight week wait for reconstruction to start. It was devastating.
The next attempt went smoothly except for the fact the plastic surgeon who did the reconstruction advised me against it. I did not scar well and would have more scars elsewhere from the reconstruction. I followed his advice.
Twenty-some-odd years later and they need to be replaced. One is leaking (don’t worry, it’s filled with saline) and where I have gained a decent amount of weight they look disproportionately small. I’m waiting to hear back from the referral to a surgeon.
I have struggled ever since with feeling attactive, feeling feminine, feeling sexy. I wear a brave face because what else can I do? I often look upon my body with hatred and loating, resenting my younger self for having the stupid operation to begin with. A part of my journey is learning to be more compassionate with myself, to build a better relationship with myself and to manage my occasionally out of control emotions.
My Phoenix Rising 