Re-opening Old Wounds
Putting an end to it, once and for all
This morning, I popped an Ativan and drove into Austin to the original radiology imaging center I went to way back in May 2016 after my diagnosis.
Memories of that day years ago are surprisingly fond. Brain MRIs weren’t nearly as bad as I imagined and reminded me of LCD Soundsystem. A full body bone scan was as boring as watching paint dry. The warm sensation of peeing myself during the CT scan seemed strange enough to be entertaining. Overall, the charismatic staff and my complete naivety of what they were looking for — cancer that had spread to any other part of my body leaping me to a stage 4 incurable diagnosis — made for a relatively pleasant albeit long day.
Today, I was in and out of radiology within an hour! I am preparing for yet another breast surgery and my scan today was to help my surgeon create a “map” of the arterial system of my abdomen. I will be having what is called a diep flap reconstruction procedure. Basically, the plastic surgeon is going to take living fat tissue and blood vessels from my abdomen and rebuild them into boobs. Magic, right?
This is a big surgery though. It’ll take at least 8 hours and I have to stay in the hospital 3-4 days. I’ll have many more incisions than I ever had before with mastectomy or reconstruction. Likely I’ll again have drains, mobility issues, possible deformities, and lots of pain.
First question…why, in the name of all things holy and while only barely clinging to normality as it is, would I opt for such a procedure?
My initial reconstruction was performed in February 2017. It was great! I looked terrific! I would finish up active treatment by June 2017 and assumed I’d be putting the whole mess behind me, forging impatiently into the next chapter of my life with unstoppable grit. Implant reconstruction was intended to last a decade at least. I could be active again and work to pay off my huge medical debt. I could heal!
Then, in 2021 I found out I had to have a reconstruction revision. My body was responding meanly to one of the implants and it needed to be removed/replaced. They would use the same incisions in my breasts as the two times before, they said. “No new scars,” they celebrated, like it was some terrific adaptation of my body to just be cut open again and again in the same place for everything that went wrong. I braced for another expensive surgery just as I was nearing the payoff of the first wave of debt. Back down off the aerial silks for 6 months. Not back to the start but a pretty big step backwards.
Then, in 2023, I realized the other implant was failing and I needed yet another revision surgery. Why not? I had nearly paid off the last deductible. Who needs extra money when you can just dump it into the cancer hole you’re, apparently, never going to pay your way out. Who needs to ever really heal from this nightmare, like get past it somehow emotionally, physically, financially? Let’s reopen those wounds again and again forever, just to see how long someone can take it before they break. Don’t ever feel triumphant or whole because as soon as you do, cancer will remind you you’re not your own anymore and never will be.
I’m stronger now, unquestionably. I’m not afraid of scalpels or drains or scars or pain or body image. What I am afraid of is that if I don’t try, I may never get my life back. I just want this to be done. So, I’m doubling down on this terrifying, body-altering surgery in the hope it will be my last one. Ever.
Supposedly, the transfer of one’s own tissue eliminates the possibility of rejection, like I’ve had with implants. There are plenty of cons though. The risk of infection is much higher and there will be lots more new scars this time. For example, my doctor will create a new belly button hole! WHAT?! That’s crazy. I might even need to get nipples tattooed. I have no tattoos so this is an exciting new adventure in pain and art.
Surgery is scheduled in 6 weeks. I’ll get through this. I know I will. I’m tough and cranky and determined and damn it, I’m over this shit. Cancer, again, messed with the wrong bitch in the wrong era. Procedure is on St. Patrick’s Day so drink one for me that day and send some Irish luck my way.
I admire you and your perseverance. I’ll be thinking of you and sending good and strong energy your way through this new ( and hopefully last!) process…
You are one of the strongest people I know...and let's be honest, I highly doubt I'd have made it through my diagnosis if I didn't have you as a beacon showing me to the other side of it all.