Body pains.
Emotional funk.
Stomach upset.
Existential wonder.
Constant as this is, some days it’s next-level loud.
Today marks the anniversary of my bilateral mastectomy.
The edges of the memories blur only a little due to time passing,
but something like this…
…something so jarringly transformative…
doesn’t exist in the normal construct of time.
These days are odd.
I’m filled with complicated feelings.
I notice tensions between opposing perspectives.
I feel present in the past memories as much as I feel present in the current moment…
…my body thinks it’s there and also knows it’s here…
I remember because I cannot help it.
I remember because it matters.
I think it’s easy to reduce something down to its label
when we talk about it at a sheltered and surface level.
A “mastectomy”…
…oh, it’s just a standard operation…
…you know, it is a life-saving surgery…
Lots of people get them.
Almost any general surgeon could do one.
What else do we whittle down to such oversimplicity?
That day was one of my darkest days.
One of my hardest days. The terror that invaded every cell. Literally. The anger, despair, dread, and dismay, too. The not-knowing…not only what it would feel like to wake up from a surgery like that but if I’d even wake up at all. And that’s on the big scale of things.
All of the little details of the day were wretched, too. Anxious “sleep.” Waking up. Showering. Looking in the mirror. Seeing proof of disease. Wondering how long I’d missed it. Angry at my denial. Confused at my reality. Pleading for divine intervention, my rescue, a miracle.
“I still have 3 hours…it could still happen.”
Driving in a silent car through highway construction. Walking in from the parking lot carrying my ‘hospital bag.’ Checking in. Looking into their eyes. Do they KNOW? Waiting in a room with several others. Watching the TV monitor put up patient names and statuses. Seeing mine pop up and feeling relieved that at least I was in the right place at the right time. And then instantly nauseous that I was.
“I still have 2 hours…it could still happen.”
Following the nurses to little rooms with more nakedness and needles and tests. Radioactive dye swirling through my veins. What will they find…what will they find? Waiting some more. Seeing different people in the waiting room now. Hearing my name was a dagger through my heart.
“I still have an hour…it could still happen.”
Having a surgeon come in and make sure we were all there for the same reason. Having another surgeon come in and draw all over my naked body. Seeing the eyes of the nurses who knew. Feeling the squeeze of their hand on my arm as they left me to wait some more. Having the anesthesiologist come in and tell me how they would keep me alive. The conversations with all of the different people. The confirming of my name and birthdate and procedure. Over and over and over again. The consents. The wristbands. The waiting.
“I still have 30 minutes…it could still happen.”
The IVs that never go in the first try. The nervous joking that always follows. The second and third nurse’s attempts. The non-slip socks. The compression leggings. The no underwear so they can catheterize me. The vulnerabilities. The open-to-the-back gowns. The white rough blankets that come out of the warmer. The internal trembling. The shivering that won’t go away. The stomach churning. The wondering.
“Will it happen? I’m out of time.”
The staring at the ceiling. The listening to all of the sounds around me. The unsettling. The last autonomous pee before I’ll lay unconscious for hours. The ride down the hall.
“Maybe they will open me up and see that it happened and close me right back up.”
The plasticy, stinky, cold air hitting my face through a mask putting me into anesthetic sleep.
How do you prepare for something you never saw coming?
The focus up to that moment had been “GET THIS CANCER OFF”…
…by all means necessary…
…at all costs required…
…as fast as possible.
So far, so “successful.”
And then I came to in a dark room with a dark outside. How fitting.
I looked down and saw emptiness, literal concavity. How nauseating.
Drains. Incisions. Bandages and bindings. Sore throat. Dry mouth. Pain. How depressing.
Nurses and doctors making their rounds uncovering, touching, inspecting. How humiliating.
It’s not lost on me that I came to, that I was alive.
Yes, by all means necessary, and as fast as possible…
…but at what cost. At.what.cost…
I had not even the slightest idea yet.
What I know now…the cost is so much more than I ever knew to think.
And it is felt in every present moment now.
And it remains incalculable for all of time to come.
As I honor my mastectomy anniversary both for myself and for the impact my story can have for others, may I offer some advice:
I beg of you, don’t diminish mastectomies because the word has become rote. Don’t replace the truth of them with the oversimplified “it’s a life-saving surgery”… We tend to do this as humans…we tend to silver-line the wretched, to sugar-coat the pain thinking that it makes things better or easier to stomach. In reality, though, we minimize the experience. And, when we silver-line or sugar-coat, not only do we say things that aren’t helpful, but we also say things (without saying things…if you get my drift) that are hurtful. “A life-saving surgery” might not save someone’s life. And if it does in fact, at the bare minimum, keep the human package alive, that life may be so forever altered that they don’t know how to live in that life. At best, it’s now a new and very confusing reality with a lot of non-death losses to grapple with, often including survivor’s guilt for those that didn’t get to. We cannot diminish ‘surviving’ to ‘everything is good now because there was no death.’ Grief and loss and life and death and gratitude and purpose are FAR too complicated for comfortable simplicity.
May you be encouraged to hold space for such complexities. And instead, say, “This is significant. And so is your experience of it. And so are you. I’ll listen if you’d like to share. And if not, I’ll sit here with you in the quiet.”
Thanks for reading. 🧡🫶🏼
Love you so much!