Feeling a Little Lighter (Literally)
- timandcloe
- 15 hours ago
- 7 min read
Well. Surgery day has come and gone and, a week later, I’m feeling… lighter.
Quite literally.
At present, I estimate I have approximately 1.2 boobs.
The “.2” is courtesy of a tissue expander now sitting behind my pec muscle which, might I add, feels every bit as delightful as it sounds. Everything else on the right, including breast tissue and somewhere between 10 and 30 lymph nodes (final tally pending), has been evicted from the premises.
Yes. Donald, Vladimir and the Benjamins have officially been ousted from office. Their regime has collapsed, their influence has been revoked, and this particular democracy is returning to a healthier state.
So now I am officially a Uni-boober.
A Human Dromedary.
50% off discount rack.
A One Tit Wonder.
A single serving.
Driving around with one headlight out. 🔦
The list could go on… (and please feel free to share your suggestions. Don’t go all PC on me…)
Surgery itself went as expected. I checked into Hotel Hollywood at the delightfully civilised hour of 6am, was wheeled into theatre around 9am, and emerged sometime after lunch.
I say emerged, not woke up, because I genuinely have no recollection of recovery. I vaguely remember lights flickering in and out of existence until about 4pm, but beyond that, there was nothing happening behind those eyelids.
Now, anyone who has met me knows I don’t do anaesthetic particularly well. My body has made it abundantly clear over the years that if something is capable of causing nausea, it shall.
So naturally, I christened my hospital bed by vomiting spectacularly into it.
Yep. During my first brave attempt at walking the ward, I found the bed and bedframe were no match for what came next.
Mid heave, though, I happened to glance out the window…
Fireworks over Elizabeth Quay.
Honestly, if one must vomit one’s ring up, there are worse views to accompany the occasion. It was quite stunning really.
By the following morning, though, I felt unremarkably human again.
And clearly deciding calories were medicinal, I ordered what was essentially the entire breakfast menu and hosted a rather exclusive “Party for One” (featuring my remaining boob, blissfully unaware its days are numbered).
Then I strapped on my mastectomy pillow, slung my stylish new drain handbag over my shoulder (Paris Fashion Week, do call me), and began pacing the hospital corridors.
Up.
Down.
Repeat.
You may reasonably be asking, “Why, you complete weirdo?”
A fair question. And one that’s oddly asked of me quite a lot…well the werido part at least.
Well firstly, I simply cannot tolerate stronger pain relief. Anything beyond paracetamol or anti-inflammatories tends to make a very swift return appearance. Apparently, my body skipped the “enjoy the pain-med highs” memo, which is a shame because that perk is completely wasted on me.
And anti-nausea medication doesn't work on me.
Yep - every new type or brand has entered the arena convinced it would finally be the one to conquer my stomach. Its prescribing physician has usually shared that confidence.
Every single anti-nausea medication has, however, left defeated.
Plus, after once experiencing ketamine in the burns clinic, which had me convinced the tunnel-visioned walls were plotting against me while I scratched at them like an escaped asylum patient, I also have no great desire to repeat that little adventure even though they have kindly charted it up as an option if needed this time.
Secondly, walking is my distraction.
It puts me into what I affectionately call: My Pigeon Mode.
Where I’m so busy looking around at absolutely everything that I momentarily forget what has just happened (like the small detail that I’ve just had a boob removed).
Someone walks past? Fascinating.
Interesting artwork? Better inspect it.
What’s that machine doing? Excellent question.
What does that button do on their monitor?
…No.
Don’t touch it.
We don’t let the intrusive thoughts win.
...
👉
...
And before I know it, another lap is done.
Besides, movement is supposedly good for recovery anyway, or so the clever people keep telling us. 🙄
It was actually during one of these laps that my surgeon had to come looking for me to give me the post op update.
Apparently the surgery had gone exactly as planned, following the rather impressive artwork she’d drawn across my chest beforehand.
She insists it was a batwing incision.
I maintain it was the Bat(man) Signal.
Tomayto, tomahto.
She also seemed rather pleased with how I was recovering and effectively awarded me a metaphorical gold star. Instead of staying the anticipated three or four nights, she was happy for me to head home the following day with my drains still attached and continue recovering through Hospital in the Home, where a lovely nurse visits daily to check my wounds, drains and general wellbeing.
Needless to say, I accepted immediately.
Home.
My own bed.
My own shower.
My own toilet.
And the enormous luxury of having an entirely legitimate excuse not to clean the house?
Sold.
So I continued my corridor laps, made a new friend along the way, demolished another excellent dinner, and the following morning packed my bags, put on a little makeup, made my hospital bed (old habits die hard), and waited for Tim to collect me.
And recovery at home has continued to go well.
I’m filling my drains with admirable efficiency, sleeping semi upright thanks to a wedge pillow approximately the size of Uluru, and slowly finding my rhythm.
Don’t get me wrong. Surgery is still surgery.
It hurts.
It’s uncomfortable.
Everything feels tight, tender and slightly offended.
But considering someone removed half my chest and tucked an inflatable underneath my muscle, I genuinely feel like I’m doing about as well as I could reasonably hope.
More surprisingly though…
I feel lighter emotionally too.
The hardest part wasn’t actually the operation. It was saying goodbye beforehand.
But that chapter has now closed.
There’s an enormous sense of acceptance that comes once the thing you’ve spent months anticipating has finally happened.
I can’t change it now.
I can’t undo it.
And strangely…
That’s peaceful.
Donald, Vladimir and the Benjamins are finally gone. Hopefully forever.
And that’s one enormous step closer to hearing those beautiful words:
No evidence of disease.
NED for short.
Or, as I prefer to call him...
Ned Flanders.
Hi-diddly-ho, neighbourino. Pull up a chair, stay awhile, and for the love of all things holy, never leave. 😂
I know, I know. Yes, it’s not guaranteed, of course, that I’ll hear those words. But I’ve always preferred packing optimism over dragging around a suitcase full of hypothetical disasters.
This feeling of lightness - emotionally and physically - has actually made me want to make the most of this little window before I hop back onto the cancer conveyor belt.
Soon enough, it’ll be back to specialist appointments and infusions, expander inflations (because apparently we’re slowly turning me into a Build A Boob workshop), starting lymphatic physiotherapy, meeting my new radiation oncologist, and then several weeks of radiotherapy.
Then, somewhere down the track…
Ol’ Choppy Choppy (okay, not the actual name of my lovely surgeon) returns for the left side.
Cancer really is the gift that keeps on scheduling. And taking.
Fucker. 🖕
So before all of that begins again, I’ve given myself one mission:
A Date a Day.
Every day during recovery, Tim and I are going on a little date.
Nothing extravagant.
Just intentionally spending time together while he’s wearing the many hats of husband, carer, chauffeur, sponge bather (he keeps insisting), and general opener of jars.
Mostly, because I want to remind both of us that although I currently resemble Voldemort’s older sister, underneath the surgical bras, drains and chemo related changes…
I’m still me.
And I still think he’s an absolute catch.
Even if, while helping me fasten my front closing surgical bra (kindly provided by BCNA), because feeling hasn’t yet returned to my fingertips after chemo, he had to kneel because of my vertically challenged stature…
…only for his old man knees to promptly seize up, leaving him stranded on the floor.
So really, we ended up caring for each other.
Marriage is beautiful.
And also, because my tastebuds are slowly returning, I’m keen to start my culinary comeback tour and tick off all the foods I’ve missed.
So far our dates have included a sunset walk around the local park on my first night home, Devonshire tea at a café where we were almost certainly the youngest patrons by several decades, and a trip to Bunnings so Muncy could enjoy his very first green trolley adventure (and so we could resolve a morning argument about the new theatre design Tim had no idea we were apparently renovating. What can I say? The reno kid doesn’t get bullied by the cancer kid.)
And today, we headed out for a cooked breakfast, followed by another afternoon walk planned after the nurse’s visit.
Simple.
Ordinary.
Perfect. 🤌
So that’s where I am.
One more enormous hurdle behind me, quietly sitting in that little valley before the next mountain appears.
Brighter.
Lighter. (Although I really should have weighed myself before and after surgery. Missed opportunity for some very useless data.)
And in a few weeks’ time…
Slightly more inflated. 🎈
Oh and fun fact? I now carry an airport metal detector card… for my boob.
Tissue expanders come with their own little travel documentation because they contain a tiny magnetic valve that surgeons use to locate where to insert a needle before gradually filling them with saline.
I can’t wait to casually flash that one at airport security…
This blog is to allow me to write a little more about it along the way. Partly to keep friends and family updated, and partly because writing has always been how I make sense of things.
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