The Day I Lost My Boobs

Can I have a moment of silence? No, really, just a moment.

Thank you.

Losing my boobs is hard. It’s losing a piece of myself that’s been with me since the age of twelve. However, I really want the cancer out, so opting for a double mastectomy is what’s best for me. Although I only have the tumor on my right side, I choose to remove both breasts because I simply don’t want to worry the rest of my life. And I know myself well enough to know that I would worry.

It’s the day of surgery. I’m in pre-op. Lying on my bed, I’ve got the IV in my arm and Andy, my fiancé, by my side. Dr. Prati, my breast surgeon, explains what will happen to me when I’m under. First, she’ll remove the tissue from both breasts. Then, she’ll remove all the lymph nodes from my right armpit (we already know I have two positive lymph nodes). Should take about two hours.

I nod my head, and with a trembling hand, sign her release form.

Ten minutes later, Dr. Festekjian, my reconstruction plastic surgeon, draws black lines with a marker on my soon-to-be-gone-forever-real boobs. He explains how he’ll place the tissue expanders inside my chest after Dr. Prati is done. Then, I’ll have a drain placed under each breast. Should take about another two hours.

I nod my head, and with an unsteady hand, sign his release form.

After that, I meet Dr. Festekjian’s plastic surgery team followed by the anesthesiology team who review the drugs I’ll be given. I remind them how anesthesia is my worst enemy. I get very nauseous to the point that I’ll throw up for hours…and hours. (Which is incidentally what I did after the surgery. Poor me. I stayed an extra day in the hospital because of it.)

So after meeting about twenty different doctors and nurses, I’m super confident I’m in amazing hands. The Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center is awesome!

Although I do ask for the chaplain who comes to my bedside, “You asked for the Anointing of the Sick?”

“Yes,” I start.

“You know, that’s for people who are dying.”

“Oh.” I smile. “Well, I’m not dying.”

“No,” he replies, “You’re certainly not. But we can still pray.”

And so the chaplain, me, and Andy do just that.

The last vision I have before the drugs kick in is my love’s handsome face. He has certainly been my angel throughout this whole ordeal.

I wake up. It’s 7pm and I’m in a private room. Apparently, I’ve been out since the late morning and was in post-op the whole time, throwing up every half hour.

That night, I finally stop vomiting but I don’t eat or drink anything, not even ice chips.  

Throughout the night, the nurse checks on me. I wet my mouth with a small sponge on a stick and the nurse wafts the ginger essential oil under my nose.

I don’t really feel much pain. Just numbness. But it could be that I’m so drugged up. I have a push-button remote placed near my hand that I can press whenever the pain gets intense. It dispenses a set dosage of the painkiller. My advice, press it when you need to. This isn’t the time to demonstrate how strong you are. You just removed your boobs! Give yourself a break.

In the morning, a physical therapist visits. She urges me to get out of bed. What? Lady, do you know what I’ve just been through? I tell her I’m not sure and I really don’t want to. Reluctantly, I sit up…very slowly, and swing my feet over the side. Unfortunately, and the reason why I know I don't want to sit up in the first place, I dry heave, and not just a little, but a lot! Of course, we decide it’s best for me to lie back down. Ya’ think?!

My advice, listen to your intuition. YOU are your best advocate! YOU determine when YOU will do things. You’ve been through enough!

Overall, I don’t really feel pain, just numbness, really. Did I say really enough to convince you? Besides, I’m heavily sedated, which in my case, is a good thing. I don’t want to feel an ounce of pain.

My surgery is a success. Thank goodness, margins are clear. However, Dr. Prati will have to excise a small piece of my skin for extra assurance (which I did two weeks later).

I’ll explain the drains in a separate post. For now, I leave you with this. It’s really not all that bad, minus the vomiting. I could’ve done without that. Compared to my chemotherapy, it makes what I went through after surgery look easy.

But all in all, I survive it, and so can you.