I want to get this off my chest

My Boobs are Trying To Kill Me

I never wanted to tell you that I had cancer

I don’t wear pink

My Eyes are Up Here

Nipple

These are all titles I considered last year as I pondered whether to write about my cancer journey. The first title was something a dear friend said to me. The five year anniversary of her Stage 1 diagnosis is this month. (I love you, V, and I'm hella glad your boobs didn't kill you because I need you to get me though this!)

I told as few people about my cancer as I could get away with. I tole my immediate family, my employers, and the friends I saw nearly every day. Otherwise, I didn't want to make a big deal of it. Whatever I was going through, it wasn't as bad as so many other cancer patients, past and present, had it. Regardless of what I was personally going through, it felt like sympathy was not warranted. 

I have two pink shirts. I wear them rarely. I'm just not a pink girilie-girl. Grew up with boys, had only boy cousins for (30 years), and had boys. I have one grandson. We get along fine. I have no idea what to do with my granddaughter when she asks me to do her hair. Needless to say, I'm not comfortable wearing pink to show my support for breast cancer research and survivorship. Don't get me wrong, I support both of those things. I just don't feel like advertising my own situation.

I've never really had a problem with guys staring at my chest (because my boobs were so small) but it's a common complaint among women and now that all of my focus was on my boobs, I imagined everyone else's was, too. I was still here, though, and I wanted to people to see all of me.

Finally, "nipple" is a word that gets used with alarming frequency in the early stages of breast cancer. It's practically (and, in fact, was) dinner conversation with - well, everyone. It's all about the nipple. Can it be saved? Can it be reconstructed or tattooed. Are there nipple prostheses? The answer is yes to all of them but here's the thing. If you're going to have breast cancer, you and the people you're closest with are going to have to get comfortable with the word "nipple" because it will be used frequently in the first several weeks. A lot.

The title of this post is my attempt at humor. I wanted the cancer off my chest. (Sadly, now, I'm getting my wish.) There was a time I wanted the implant off my chest. I wanted to get all that I was feeling - am feeling - off my chest. 

I just want it to be over as I'm sure so many other cancer patients do. I'm just doing the best I can. I hope you are, too.

What happened?

There's a hole in the bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza ...

Then, fix it!

There's a hole in my boob. I don't know why. It's about as big as the o in boob. Not big but big enough to to introduce bacteria to the implant.

Hello, implant. Meet bacteria.

I can actually see the implant through this hole.

A tiny window into my soul??

I've had an open wound, now, for over a month. Antibiotic medication seems to be keeping any infection from becoming serious. The surrounding tissue looks fine, there's no fever, and no elevated white blood cell count. Can't we just put a bandage on it? 

The answer is, universally, no. If you search for "implant extrusion," you may see the words "rare" and "dangerous." (You may also see some disturbing images so do so at your own risk.) Yet, not one doctor of the five I've seen so far has bothered to offer one.

The chances of it healing, I've been told, is zero. For a variety of reasons, the chances that any patch would hold is nearly zero. I don't want to believe this and yet I have no reason to believe my doctors are not well trained. Even the inter webs agree with science! 

Still, I hope. Even as I plan to move forward with surgery. 

Correction, surgeries.

I'm about to lose my boob for a second time for a cancer I didn't have

While this site was created during a time when I was experiencing extreme back pain, I've more recently been experiencing issues with the flip side. Namely, my breasts. The journey, to date, has been these last 20 months. 

It began with a diagnosis of breast cancer. It was in situ, referred to as Stage 0, meaning there were cancer cells found in milk ducts (of one breast, in my case) that were not yet invasive into the breast tissue (which begins Stage 1). For many reasons, a unilateral mastectomy was recommended. 

Because my diagnosis was Stage 0, it is referred to, by some, as a non-cancer. One oncologist did just that not long after my breast was removed. 

It felt like a slap in the face.

Fast forward to today, it is being recommended that my breast be again removed. This time, it will be an implant rather than breast tissue but I will still need to face the painful task of reconstruction for a second time (in as many years). The process will take months, over three calendar years. Three maximum out-of-pocket deductibles.

This non-cancer will cost me $20,000 before it's over and my insurance company an estimated $150,000.

This new boob had better be pretty spectacular.

In fact, I've already pondered whether we could add a squeaky valve while we're at it. It would be a wildly inappropriate party trick to squeeze my boob and have it squeak. But for a hundred and seventy grand, it really should do something.

[Update: if I include the amount my employer paid to hire a temporary replacement while I was on sick leave, the total cost of my fantastically unfantastic boob is closer to $200,000. If my entire body was valued at the same rate of $200k per .44 lb, I would be worth more than $56 million. Take that, Jaime Sommers.]