When I hear the word “expander”, elastic waistband pants or an extra belt hole comes to mind? Almost right. But sort of more like this:

Without getting too graphic (although who doesn’t love a little blood and gore), once you are snuggled down and knocked out on the surgery table, all the good stuff underneath your boobs is taken out. Some of us kind souls make this part quick and easy for the surgeon. Then the tissue expander (see image above) is inserted into the now vacuous space, with a little saline to get the party started.

This process reminds me of Thanksgiving:

Just look all those turkeys on display at the grocery store; so big, so plump, and too darned many from which to choose. You end up with one that is more than a mouthful, eyeing the “post-expander pants” leftovers regretfully. With the oven preheated, eyes squeezed shut, sleeve rolled past the elbow, the slimy innards emerge in your clenched fist with gag reflex at the ready. Taking a deep breath, you dive back into the gutted cavity with whatever you saw/read/ heard/ Googled to be best stuffing ever. The breast is then tightly sewn together so that the doubled-stuffing, which will definitely improve the original recipe, will safely and securely stay put.

In place of the breasts your first boyfriend fondled like he was kneading bread dough, is an old fashioned water bottle, filled just enough to keep it bloated. When the mastectomy scars are (relatively) healed, the fun begins. It’s time to get to fillin’!. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt a bit; you’ll only feel a little pressure. I’ve learned that regardless of the procedure, of what’s being injected or removed, you’ll only ever feel a little pressure. Oh, and maybe a pinch. I bet that’s what they told the turkey.

Christopher Robinson made Pooh promise to always remember “You’re braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.”

That’s because Christopher Robinson never met Silv…

For those of you who have never had the pleasure of meeting Silv, it’s too late. She died about ten years ago at the ripe old age of 93 and the intimidating stature of 4’ 11”.   I used to bring her with me as a ‘grandparent’ helper when I taught in Baltimore City because the kids were more afraid of her than of the school’s police. Silv didn’t yell. She didn’t even raise her voice. You did what she said and you didn’t ask why.

I really do have a point…it’s just taking a while. In the great Nature vs Nurture debate, there’s no winning this one since Silv is my maternal grandmother (i.e.: nature) and my mom needed a lot of breaks from her placid, even-tempered daughter (i.e.: nurture). After almost a decade, my therapist assures me the scars are healing nicely (sort of like the memory of the horrible, searing pains of childbirth) and I can proudly say: I am brave. I am strong. I am smart.

I am Braver than you believed.

I went in for my mammogram, which quickly turned into an ultrasound, and then a visit from the doctor who reviewed the imagines.

Me: Well Doc… you look like you’ve been in the profession for a while… just sayin’. What do you think?

Doctor: I have been practicing for a few years and I’ve seen this size and shape before. It’s usually not good.

Me: I have a giant hole in my pocket that I just filled with 100 pennies. How many of those pennies are falling out?

Doctor: I’m guessing you might drop about .65 or .70¢ on the ground. Are you going to be okay?

Me: Why wouldn’t I be? I have .35¢. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go sew a pocket hole and find some lost change.

I am Stronger than you believed

The day I was checked out of the hospital, it was by a young resident who had a difficult time making eye contact. Poor guy… didn’t even see it (er… um… me…) coming.

I had been waiting since 9:30am fully dressed and de-IV’d, pacing back and forth between my room and the nurse station for 5-hours. She finally checked the order to discover a ‘processing error’ which she promptly corrected (to be rid of me… who can blame her). Badabing, Badaboom… 30 minutes later…

Me: Let’s get this ball rolling. What do I need to sign?

Doctor (looking at the computer and the floor): Just these papers.

Me: I need a script for ibuprofen please.

Doctor: (looking at the computer) I don’t see it ordered.

Me: Dr. Wallace ordered it. I saw her last night.

Doctor: (still looking at the computer) I do have Tylenol with codeine or Oxycodone.

Me: Don’t bother. Don’t want it. Don’t need it. Don’t take it.

Doctor: But you have to (looking down). It’s been ordered.

Me: Pick up your pager. Push in some numbers. Get the ibuprofen. Ditch the narcotics.

Doctor: (looking at the computer) Um. Uh. Okay. Hold on. I’ll be right back.

Me: I know how this works. You leave. I wait. And then wait more. Hang out here with the computer and your pager.

Doctor (look at his pager): Okay.

And the scene closes with me pushing Gretchen in the wheelchair out of the hospital room and down the hall.

I am Smarter than you believed.

Pooh’s response in confirming his vow to Christopher Robinson, “We’re braver than a bee, and, uh, longer than a tree, and taller than a goose… or, uh, was that a moose?”

I went to see my oncologist the other day and he didn’t want to see my boob(s). Or rather didn’t need to see them (it?). But before I get ahead of myself let me introduce Dr. Richard Schwab, M.D., oncologist extraordinaire. If you visit him on the web (by clicking his hyperlinked name) – don’t let his boyish good looks fool you, he’s smart and charming too. But is that really important in a doctor’s qualification? Damn right it is. If I’m going to get bad news, I want it to be from someone who is easy on the eyes. Hey! I never said I’m not shallow. In fact, I think I have fully owned up to it on more than one occasion. Besides that though, he is a great doctor because he openly admits to not knowing everything and what he does know, it is clear he knows well. Who knew you’d get a Yelp review and a blog in one!?!

But I digress… back to my oncology visit with the charming Dr. Schwab. I was shown to the room with my cancer ‘buddy’, Nicole. She goes to all my doctor’s visits with me; not out of the goodness of her heart but to escape from her four children. The first thing I noticed out of place was the absence of a “Please undress from the waist up including your bra” gown. Weird but okay… let’s see how this plays out (And yes, for the record, I did just end the sentence in a preposition). We (Nicole and I) met with Dr. Schwab, spoke about treatment options, future outlook and current research, all the while I was fully clothed.

And then the unthinkable happened.

We shook hands and the appointment was over. Wait. What just happened here? Not even a flash of boob? A small grope? A peek? Nothing? Nada? Zip? Zilch? Should I be thankful? Insulted? And still today I dwell. Was it something I said?

Dear Cancer,

If we are being honest, this really isn’t great timing for me, just in case you thought I had room for one wafer thin mint. I’m going to outline any given weekday from eyes open to eyes closed.

6:45AM: The alarm goes off, jolting me out of bed. “MOMMY! GET ME!” Unfortunately I bought the wrong alarm clock; this one doesn’t have a snooze button and it gets louder the longer I stay in bed. “MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY!!! GET ME!!!! COME SEE ME!!! MOOOOMMMMYYYY!!!!!” Alarm blaring, I get Nathan from his room because, for some reason, he has yet to figure out that he is more than capable of getting himself out of bed.

7AM – 8AM: Asking a 3 1/2 year old to pick up the pace is like nailing jello to the wall. Skittles counts as a fruit, right? Add a cup of milk and I’d say that is a well balanced breakfast. As hard as I try to leave on time, I inevitably have to run back into the house for the lunch sitting on the kitchen counter, my wallet, my cell phone or (just once) Nathan.

8:45AM: Give or take 15-minutes,I am headed back to my car and away from 18 screaming, squealing, shrieking, screeching, shouting preschoolers (including my own angel). I drive home creating a to-do list in my head, where I promise myself that today is the day where I will get everything done and be in bed at a reasonable hour.

9:00AM – 10:00AM: I can’t seem to remember anything on my to-do list because walking through the front door, I trip over tiny sneakers, stumble over pieces of cars and trucks with the tires removed, and catch my fall by putting my hands down on something both wet and sticky. No work-related things can happen until my 945 square foot condo gets un-stickied, un-toyed, de-shoe-ed and de-sanded.

10:00AM – 11:00AM: While drinking my cold cup of coffee that was poured a mere three-hours ago, I start chipping away at the emails from the night before and beginning very early this morning. My students know that if they don’t get a response within 3-minutes, to email me again and again and again and again until they have fully used all my email memory.

11:00PM – 3:00PM: I won’t bore you with the details except to note that during any given day, regardless of the weather – scorching heat or torrential downpour – the landscapers will be within 30 feet of my condo mowing, blowing, sawing or trimming.

3:00PM – 4:00PM: Where oh where did the time go? I still have to eat breakfast and lunch, shower or at least change out of my pajamas and cram in another three-hours of work.

4:00PM – 4:15PM: I am officially in the car, on time, ready to get Nathan. Crap. I forgot my phone. Okay back in the car, only a little late, ready to get Nathan. Shit! I forgot my wallet. Okay…. Seriously, I am still sort of on time. It took a while to find my wallet but now I’m back on track. Oh dear G-d! Are you kidding me??? Where did I put my freaking car keys????

4:30PM: On the way to get Nathan.

4:45PM – 8:30PM: It’s Nathan’s world, I’m just living in it.

8:35PM: Mommy! I need to go potty!!!!

8:40PM: MOMMMMM!!!!! I need water!

8:45PM:Mommy! I need a band aid!!!!

8:50PM: Click play button below:

9:00PM: WHEW! I can finally eat breakfast/lunch/dinner, shower or at least put on clean pajamas, and cram in those last three hours of work.

(Photo taken this morning – Ready for school!)

SCENE 1 SUNDAY MORNING:  7:15AM

(Andy and Nathan are in the living room approximately 20 feet from the bedroom where I’m ‘sleeping’. Talking in the whispered voice of a 90-year old man who forgot to put in his hearing aids, the following conversation ensues)

NATHAN

Yayo, I want to watch Mighty Machines(← click link)!

ANDY

Nathan, I am not putting that on. Seriously. I am sick of Mighty Machines(← click link)

NATHAN

I WANT TO WATCH IT!

ANDY

Nathan. You are not the boss so stop telling me what to do.

NATHAN

Okay Yayo. Put on Mighty Machines(← click link). Please. And I want my soy milk (which is really almond milk… potato/ po-tah-toe)

(Andy puts on Mighty Machines [← click link] and pours soy milk)

click play button ↓

   ———————————————————————————————————–

SCENE 2:   7:30AM

(Walking into the living room to survey the damages of 15 minutes without Mom’s supervision, Andy is preparing to leave for work. There is background conversation but the voices are too muffled to fully understand what is being said. Andy leaves for work, the eyesore of a television is blaring Mighty Machines (← click link), Henry is on the porch barking at absolutely nothing and I am hearing the narrator’s voice from the “Wonder Years” in my head, chronicling the morning’s events and predicting the day ahead.

And the cleaning process begins…

 … scattering of toys around the house, leftover breakfast, laundry, and other family paraphernalia while Nathan is pretending to be a fire truck with its sirens on. Loud. Very, very loud. Apparently the fire is under Henry because Nathan is ‘spraying’ him with the truck’s hose which makes him start barking, which makes the sires get louder to be heard over the barking.

ME (i.e.: Fun Police)

Nathan, I know you are on an emergency call right now, putting out a fire, but please put your toys in you area.

NATHAN

I can’t right now mommy, I’m working. There’s a fire and I have to put it out.

ME:

I understand the state of emergency and respect your valued position in the fire department; however, your friend is coming over to play, but he won’t be allowed in until you pick up your toys.

              ———————————————————————————————————–

SCENE 3:   8:45AM

A friend shows up at the front door, not unexpected, to pick up Henry, who begins barking. His barking alerts Prudence, who also begins barking. At the same time, another friend and her crew arrive, not unexpected, for some playtime with Nathan, who beings screaming because the Fun Police won’t allow any friends inside until he picks up his toys.

Before too long, Henry is gone for a few days at ‘camp’ with his good friend Taylor.  Nathan is being whisked away by his good friend for breakfast and playtime.  And I get some much needed quiet time, alone, with Prudence, just the girls.

click play button ↓

                                                   We’ve all gotten sick and some of us have even, begrudgingly, admitted we need professional guidance and sought the advice of a family doctor. Me? I hardly ever get sick. Only in the most desperate of situations will I actively seek out medical attention, crawling into the office with festering wounds; wheezing and gasping for breath; while pleading to skip the obligatory weigh-in (which I don’t really understand anyway. Why the hell do I have to step on a freaking scale for hives, a cold, an ingrown toenail…you get the idea?). For this reason Cigna loves me. I mean who wouldn’t love someone who pays you, gobs of cash, for doing absolutely nothing? Each month I contribute $246.22 to our healthcare system through a paycheck deduction, which amounts to $2,954.64 annually. That’s not so bad, right? But what I was really doing was paying membership dues.

It’s sort of like a gym membership; you pay the monthly fee because very soon, any day now in fact, you are going to start going. No really. I mean it this time. Seriously. Even though I haven’t patronized the facility (exercising, visiting the juice bar, perspiring in the sauna…) for the past eight months, I’m paying for the comfort of knowing is there should I need it. Or want it. Which I don’t right now. But I will. Soon. Really. The peace of mind was comforting, easy even.

Now I know better. Silly me. I didn’t read the fine print at the bottom of the gym membership agreement where it stated that   there was also a processing , filing, taxes, tags and delivery fee. And just like that, Cigna’s account manager explained that the monthly dues, required to maintain this investment, does not include an annual $5000.00 deductible and then another 20% out of pocket expense up $10,000. My total membership contract is not the $2,954.64 to which I’ve accepted with resigned complacency, but rather: $5,000 (deductible) + 2,000 (20% addition) + $2954.64 (yearly contribution)…. Bringing the annual total to (please just sign here…here… here… and a drop of blood here… and we’re good to go!): $9,954.64.

It all sounds pretty clear-cut, right? After about an hour on the phone with Cigna’s ‘billing specialist’, these are the exact words that came out of my mouth: “I have a bachelor’s degree, two master’s degrees and a PhD but I cannot, for the life of me, understand anything you are saying because I think you are making it up as you go along.” I would love to provide examples of the invoicing and accounting confusion, except that at the conclusion of our conversation I can only tell you the following with certainty:

1. I did not use any swear words, which many of you know, showed remarkable restraint
2. I wrote down the figures, punched them into the calculator, and came up with a different total each time.
3. I still have no idea Who’s on first, What’s on second, and Why is in left field

It was a rite of passage for every Jewish girl growing up in Baltimore to get your first bra at “We Fit”, which incidentally, is now a bike shop. You’ll have to imagine yourself in a John Water’s movie (such as Hairspray), to really have a good understanding for what it was like being dragged into a BRA shop, on the main road, in plain view of everyone. Once inside, you were greeted by an employee wearing least two pair of ½ glasses, one of which was in use while the other dangled on a decorative lanyard. After your mother engaged in very loud, humiliating small talk using ear-burning words such as: first bra, perky, men-STRU-ation, and correct fitting, you were led back to the ‘dressing room’ area  that was comprised of small cubicles missing the desperately needed privacy curtain. Walking to your cubby, you enjoyed a full-view naked (from the waist up) of women, trying on bras and carrying on full conversations across dressing rooms. My goal was two-fold:

1. Keep my eyes at the floor for fear of staring my future directly in the downward-pointing boobs and
2. Get furthest from the dressing room entrance

And now you’ll have to take a journey back in time… just go with me on this one…

Remember back to a time when you were just becoming a ‘woman’; for some it might have been as early as 10-years old, while for others it was closer to the teenage years. You were self- conscious about everything from your too straight/ too curly/ too short/ too long hair to your too big/ too small/ too flat/ too round butt. The very last thing you wanted was for a stranger, or really anyone for that matter, to see your too big/ too small/ too fat/ too skinny naked torso.

The first step according to the ladies at We Fit, is to get the perfect fitting bra. After about the first minute, you’ll get the general idea for what felt like an eternity: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DhQEE_UcFn4  (You’ll have to click the link as embedding a video is only for WordPress paying customers).

You’ve endured the humiliation of being in full view and felt up by a 70-year old “We Fit” employee, but at least you will now get your very first bra.You’ve thought about this moment for a while now: lacy, pink, sassy, and making your too big/ too small boobs to look bright eyed and bushy-tailed. Using the bra-fitting measurements, your options are brought back to you by the feeler-upper. You’ll not find a stitch of lace, a hint of pink, or a ounce of sass anywhere in the lot.

I was a late bloomer, but boy-oh-boy did I bloom! My 15-year old peers were sporting Farrah Fawcet hair, Jordache jeans, and perky boobs showcased in matching bra and panties from Victoria’s secret. While I got to enjoy unruly curly hair without the benefit of modern anti-friz products, k-mart jeans, and a selection of 36DD bras, which came in coffee, flesh, and salmon color options, with triple hooks in the back and reinforced shoulder straps.

Flash forward to today, Thanksgiving 2014.

Until my surgery heals, I’ve been given a ‘boob’ to replace Lefty, with the idea of taking out the cotton filling until it matches Righty. Standing in front of the mirror wearing my tank-top with a shelf-bra, I remove a little cotton, look in the mirror for a match, remove a little more cotton, and rinse and repeat. Below is the cotton pile removed for my final match-up:

You are probably asking yourself the same question I asked myself: What happened? Where did they go? As the years passed, so did my boobs.  The boob-casing, without the benefit of any cotton, ended up being a final perfect match to Righty. Let’s look at the glass as 1/2 full: just think of all the art projects that require a boob-full of cotton stuffing…. the options are endless!

I found myself counting down the minutes until I could fill the bathroom with steam and wash off “the hospital”, three days post-surgery. When the ‘magic’ hour finally arrived, I stripped off my clothes and stared at the drains, sitting on the counter, like two bloated dead fish, and though… oh. Right. You guys.

Although I’ve had company in the shower before, this is the first time said company was surgically attached. Am I supposed to hold the Drains with one hand and shower with the other? That is going to take coordination I don’t have, nor have ever had. I ended up tying a plastic grocery bag on a hook, attaching the hook to the shower rack, and putting the drains in the bag. So yea, it worked, but the 2 ½ foot cord dangling from my body to the JP Drains supported by a thin plastic bag required some fineness and very limited movement in any direction. I felt like I needed a shower after my shower.

There has got to be a better way…. back to the Wormhole.

Shower number two involved the Drains being safety-pinned to bathing suit bottoms. I was afforded full movement, until the very end, when the bottoms had to be removed to finish “the job’. Crap… back to bag, which I just ended up holding in one hand with the showerhead in the other. Details will not be forthcoming but let’s just say it wasn’t my most graceful moment.

You hear stories. You watch the news. You read the ad campaigns. You think “this will never happen to me.” Until it does, and then your immediate reaction is usually, “MOTHERFUCKER!” Over the loudspeaker in your head, you hear the flight attendant announce: “We will now begin our gradual descent down the Great Black Wormhole (i.e.: the Internet). Please buckle your safety belts; it’s going to be a bumpy ride down.” As you are wheeled down the green mile towards the surgery room, in a sedated stupor, you are still cognizant enough to recount imagines you’ve unearthed and blurbs you’ve read, knowing what is just through those double doors ahead.

With a small addition to my normal bedtime routine, I’m in the bathroom unpinning my JP Drains (feel free go “Google” JP Drains for more than you could ever want to know) from my surgical bra so I can unplug them, and then dump the blood, goo and lymphatic fluid into a measuring cup to document. Like most bathrooms across America, mine has vanity lighting with the brightness of ten-thousand suns. This is the first time since the surgery that I really took a good look. A good long look with my glasses on. I mean yeah… Lefty’s gone, and in its place are the scarred, bruised, tube ‘infested’ remains. I tried to look at it with an unbiased eye; really staring at my torso. It’s not bad. Honestly. I felt compelled to take a picture, which I promptly sent to a few of my closest friends. All of whom responded with the same sort of casualness I’d expect, which is why they are part of my ‘inner circle’. “Righty looks pretty great for 42-years old and Lefty’s not bad either.”

I know what you’re thinking, “but what about the horrific, searing pain?” Thanks to the surgeon who uses a “continuous peripheral nerve blocker” (you’ll have to Google it); my hospital stay was relatively painless and constipation-inducing morphine-free. With the promise of doctor’s orders on the way at 9:45am, I was finally checked out of the hospital at 3pm, gifted the following horse-pill prescriptions: antibiotics, opiates of varying strengths, 800mg ibuprofen (at my request) and the obligatory stool softener. The first night at home, although I lamented the loss of a mechanical bed, an ibuprofen and a healthy serving of Nyquil did the trick. The first real day at home, with my 3 ½ year old who vibrates with “Melissa 2.0” high-strung energy, I admit that I was a little nervous as I pealed myself out of bed very slowly, assessing the pain level with each micro-movement. Everything from the waist up hurt; I’m not going to lie, but it is tolerable. The biggest problem is the stupid, pain-in-the-ass, dangling JP Drains. They’re gross, and when there is even the littlest ‘tug’ on the tubing attach in my skin, well let’s just say… not the most comfortable sensation. This might be more psychosomatic than actual pain; regardless, it totally freaks me out.