This is how rumors get started

Getting a life-changing medical diagnosis is frightening for all the reasons you’d expect but one I didn’t really process until afterwards was this feeling of complete ignorance about my body and how it actually all worked. I get a similar feeling every time I bring my car in for service – they check it out, say that such and such is needing fixing or replacement, and I nod like a dumbass and get out my wallet.

It’s kind of the same thing with doctors. The ones at Mass General have the most excellent bedside manner but still, you have to take a leap of faith with some things.

For example – after radiation was finished I continued to meet with my plastic surgeon to check on how I was healing – whether the reconstruction was holding up, how the scarring looked and so on. While I appreciated the diligence, I had no idea how getting a (really) bad sunburn actually had anything to do with a boob job. It’s not like they were going anywhere. I think? WELL. Radiation apparently affects how skin and tissues ‘act’, so where my implants were and how they were positioned was going to change a bit over time and my final “situation” wouldn’t really be visible until, well, this year.

With the implants attached to the underside of my pectoral muscles (this is the clinical standard and works fine for many people), it turns out that two things were happening. One, I was feeling a disconcerting pulling every time I used my upper body. And two, the pec muscles were pushing the implants down and away from the center of my body which was leaving a kind of unsexy trough where my cleavage used to be.

To fix this, we agreed that a follow-up surgery should take place, and we scheduled it for January 11. Minimal down time. Nothing compared to the first surgery. In and out.

Let me be clear: The immediate reconstruction I had during my first surgery was unbelievable. To have a double mastectomy and wake up with breasts, even if they weren’t the ones God gave me, was amazing. I know that now. And the scarring? Unless you are one of the lucky people who have been on the receiving end of one of my boob pictures (there are more people that I’d like to admit, sadly — modesty came off the table a while ago and since they aren’t really MINE, its like showing someone a new hat), you’re probably imagining something horrific, but the truth is, I could wear a string bikini and no one would be able to tell I had surgery. That’s how amazing the look and placement of the scarring is. I AM LUCKY.

We briefed the kids on this surgery, but didn’t talk about it much. I asked my doctor if Tom Irving would be there. He said he’d see what he could do. More on that later…

Surgery was non-eventful; it went well, and I just had to take it easy at home for a few days. What person with a life like mine takes it easy? Ever? NO ONE, I say! It won’t be surprising to anyone then that I clearly overdid it (despite my best effort) and I ended up back in the hospital with ANOTHER surgery days later to remove the hematoma that had formed under one of the newly positioned implants. Explaining this to the kids was a little more complicated, because wtf gets surgery twice in one week, but for the most part they took it at face value. Or so I thought.

The following week, I got a text from the elementary school nurse – who is also a close friend – telling me that John was telling anyone who would listen at school that I had cancer again. The teachers and administrators were fretting and checking their sources to see if this was indeed true. One actually pulled Annie out of class to ask her what was going on. Annie, who is older and very responsible but can sometimes be a little flighty, told me later that she was “like um, wait, did I miss something?”. Gratefully, I corrected my friend and asked her to set the record straight and sent a note to John’s teacher explaining what had been going on.

When John got home I sat with him and said, “Bud, I’m totally okay – I had to go to the hospital but it wasn’t because I have cancer I just needed something in my boobies fixed, and then fixed again.”

He looked at me quizzically, made a goofy smile, smacked his forehead, and said “Doh. I just got the words mixed up. I meant you had surgery. Not cancer.”

I realized then a) how little he understood of what was going on in the first place and b) how much the right message matters, especially when you’re talking to a 7-year old.