Pump Up The Volume!
Here we go, c'mon
do it
do it
do it
pump up the volume
pump up the volume
pump up the volume
dance
dance
Recently, I read an article that discussed intriguing scientific evidence: listening to music improves your blood oxygen capacity and is a performance enhancement. After watching Olympian swimmer, Michael Phelps, with his medal winning, world record setting, performances at Beijing and London -- I'm definitely a believer.
Then it occurred to me that perhaps music is the performance booster that I need, not to set the world record in the 100m butterfly, but, to handle the 100cc's of saline injected into my breast every week. I'm not generally a fan of late 80's house music...but, without a doubt, my motivational song would have to be Pump Up The Volume by M/A/R/R/S.
While under the knife, my plastic surgeon positioned a tissue expander beneath the muscles of my chest wall. The purpose of the expander is to stretch the breast skin and chest wall muscles in order to make room for the permanent breast implant.
Most days, I think the purpose of the expander is to make you feel like you have a turtle hibernating in your chest (well, my daughter always wanted one for a pet...but instead of the usual tank aquarium that most pet owners would purchase for its home, ours is residing under my reconstructed breast). Anyway, the incision from my mastectomy has healed and it's now time to pump that bad boy up. So every week, I go to see Laura, the nurse at Johns Hopkins Breast Center, to have a large syringe filled with salt water injected into my turtle shell, I mean, tissue expander until we get to the desired cup size...or until the skin looks like it's being "compromised" (i.e. like it's going to pop) -- whichever one comes first.
put the needle on the record (oops, I mean 'in the expander')
put the needle in the expander
put the needle in the expander
put the needle in the expander
put the needle in the expander
when the song beats goes like this
pump up the volume
pump up the volume
breathe breathe
Let me tell you, as alluring as this whole process may sound -- I mean, what's not appealing about having your breasts uplifted? -- it's painful. I'm talking muscle relaxers and narcotics needed to relieve the pain kind of painful. My niece said to me when I was first diagnosed, "Boobs are such an annoying part of the body anyway." You're not kidding. Even more annoying than the usual pre-mastectomy breast inconveniences, such as trying to keep those unsightly bra straps tucked inconspicuously inside of your sleeveless dress, is the removal and then reconstruction of them. Phew, the things that I'm willing to go through in order to salvage next year's swimsuit season.
While I was lying down after the first expansion visit and the second round of pain meds were finally kicking in, I cursed myself for not giving further consideration to the prosthetic breast forms -- just pop them into your post-mastectomy pocket bra and go. Although, that option would not work for this beach-loving gal. I can see the scene now: I'm leaving the beach with my three kids and instead of the usual flip flop or broken clam shell falling victim to the sand, something of greater importance dropping...my boob. Then, the sound of footsteps rapidly approaching with the person shouting, "Excuse me, Ma'am. Wait!" I turn to see what the ruckus is all about when I notice the man approaching me. His face reddens from embarrassment as he extends his hand out to reveal the silicone breast form, "Um, you dropped this." Yikes -- no thank you. I'll stick to the permanent solution. So bring on the muscle relaxers and crank up the music...
pump up the volume
pump up the volume
brothers and sisters
pump that baby
Mirror, Mirror On The Wall Who Is The Unfairest Of Them All?
It's been three weeks since my visit to the O.R. and, I'm not going to lie, the road to recovery has been a lot bumpier than I had anticipated. Let's just say that the combination of my oncological surgeon having to perform an "aggressive" mastectomy followed by my plastic surgeon having to do some clever "manipulating" in order to implant the turtle shell, I mean, tissue expander under my reconstructed breast doesn't make for a great combination. But, no surprise there, the removal of any body part, essential or not, is going to cause aches and pains. That's what pain medications are for...lots and lots of really good pain medications. Although, it wasn't the physical pain that was causing the set back in my recovery, it was the mental anguish. Which, unfortunately, there is no amount of Dilaudid to ease that kind of pain.
A few days after surgery, I was getting out of the shower when I caught a glimpse of the woman looking back at me through the foggy bathroom mirror. I wiped the condensation to get a better look and...
...AAAAAHHHHH!!!! Who is that woman who snuck into my bathroom and overtook my reflection? Sure, we speak the same, have the same brown eyes and the same freckle on the tip of our nose but the person staring back at me is certainly no one that I know.
The first thing that came to mind was the famous question from the classic fairy tale, Snow White and The Seven Dwarfs. Only this time the question wasn't being asked to seek the answer to who is the fairest of them all, but the unfairest.
Mirror, mirror on the wall who is the unfairest of them all?
"Thou, O Lisa, art the unfairest of them all."
No kidding. And, unfair is being generous more like hideous. I couldn't take my eyes off of the image staring back at me. For a brief moment, I tried to take comfort in the words that have always provided ease during one of cancer's perilous blows, "It's only temporary." Only this time, that wasn't the case...that boob is never growing back. I could feel my eyes starting to well with tears. I thought to myself, "Keep it together. Whatever you do, do not cry. Do NOT...." Too late I could no longer hold back the tears as I grabbed my chest certain that my stitches were going to burst open from my sobbing.
I know what you must be thinking, pathetic, right? After all the miseries that I have withstood these past months and this is what brings me to my knees -- vanity. I don't know if it was the shock of the railroad track incision that replaced the spot where my right breast once resided or the exhaustion of dismissing the mental strife that I was experiencing from the procedure but the words of warning from my plastic surgeon no longer provided comfort in the reality of the moment -- "Just remember, don't freak out after surgery. Reconstruction is a process that will take place over the course of several months - you have to be patient." Well, my patience had run out and I was definitely freaking.
After a few more minutes of crying and cursing God for allowing this insidious disease to take one more thing from me, I finally lifted myself off the floor, dried off and manipulated my way into one of my husband's shirts...loose garments are key to post-op recovery.
Later that evening when my husband got home from work, he handed me a package that came in the mail from one of my dearest friends. Here is the little gem that was inside:
Amen to that. Here I am breaking down like a beauty pageant contestant who lost her chance of winning the crown due to tripping on stage in her six inch heels sending her falsies and hair piece flying into the face of one of the judges. Well, this latest physical change to my body has nothing to do with winning a beauty pageant, and everything to do with ridding my body of a serious disease. A disease that is looking to claim more than just a breast...a disease that is looking to claim my life. Go ahead, take my breast -- it's a small sacrifice to make for the gift that I get in return, my beautiful life with my beautiful husband and children.
One week after the melt down, I was brushing my teeth when my eyes lingered on the woman looking back at me in the mirror. Instead of noting the usual pre-cancer criticisms, like it's time to slather some Olay Regenerist on those small creases gathering in the center of my forehead or pull out one of the Crest Whitestrips to brighten that dull smile, I made just one observation - "Lisa, you are beautiful." Sure, I'm not waiting for a call from Disney begging to cast me as one of their "fairest" princesses. But, for the first time, in a long, long time, I like -- no, love -- the woman looking back at me. Not because of the brows and lashes that have finally started to fill in but for the beauty that radiates from within. The beauty that comes from knowing that from this point forward a healthier woman continues to emerge. Wounded? Sure. But no longer sick. I told you, cancer, that you didn't stand a chance.
