I've been reminded of my mastectomy this week through a conversation with someone on Twitter, and it made me dig out this piece I had in The Times in a different lifetime.
“The worst
thing about your mastectomy, as far as I’m concerned” said my husband, “is forever finding your falsie in
the fruit bowl.” OK, I admit it, sometimes when it’s itching a bit I do take it
out and leave it in the receptacle closest to hand. And while I’m not upset by
finding such a good friend in unexpected places, other members of the family
are not so keen on reaching into the magazine rack for the Radio Times and
getting a handful of pink blancmange instead.
We wouldn’t
have this problem if I’d had a reconstruction after the mastectomy. It was five
years ago and feel I got off lightly because I had no other treatment. And
although I’ve had occasional cysts, which do cause a bout of the jitters until
they are diagnosed and dealt with, I’ve had no recurrence of cancer.
I did
originally discuss reconstructive surgery with my breast care nurse, a fellow
mastectomee and someone who also shared my sense of humour. She entertained me
with the trials of colour matching fake nipples, and with stories of swimming
on holiday and being startled at the sight of her freedom-loving prosthesis,
having escaped the confines of her cossie and approaching her atop a wave.
Yesterday
at my annual check up the doctor asked me if I’d ever thought of having a reconstruction,
something no-one had mentioned since the mastectomy. I explained that I wasn’t
keen on having alien bodies implanted into my own body, which with advancing
middle age looks alien enough (on those occasions when I’m feeling robust
enough to look at myself in the mirror with no clothes on.)
The truth
is that I have adjusted to being an Amazon. The only real drag is having my
falsie escape at inopportune moments. Like the time I was painting the gloss in
our new house while the builder and plumber were in the adjoining room. I was
on my knees doing the skirting board when my falsie slipped out and was
threatening to fall out of the bottom of my rugby shirt. How could I grab it
and hide it before anyone came in, when I had paint all over my hands and there
was nothing in the room but a tin of paint, a bottle of white spirit and a
grotty old duster?
I don’t
feel the need for a reconstruction. I always used to be proud not of my bust
measurement but my flat stomach, and I yearned to be like Audrey Hepburn, not
Dolly Parton. Also, I am 51 and have been married forever, and my husband has
never been a boob man. Before the operation and since, he has been everything I
could have wanted a husband to be. The surgeon was tactful and skilled and all
the nursing staff were sensitive, but it did take time to accept my new …well,
lopsidedness. Now I am used to being asymmetrical, and having a scar instead of
a breast, if neither I nor my husband care, why should I want a reconstruction?
When I
asked him about it again today he said “Reconstruction? Isn’t that something
on Crimewatch where they make a
passing resemblance to a former reality and hope viewers’ imaginations will
supply vital missing details?” Then he asked how they would make the new boob
sag incrementally over time to keep pace with the old one. He pictured me at
sixty as part Lolita and part Nora Batty.
The doctor
did talk about alternatives to having bits inserted. It was possible to take
fat from the belly, she said, and use that to reconstruct a breast. Now she was
talking. I could return to the lost era of the flat stomach. But was a
reconstruction operation a price worth paying?
Then I had
the idea. Women who have had breast surgery are offered free counselling and
plastic surgery on the NHS, on the grounds of helping their adjustment and
speedy recovery. If some kind of plastic surgery is going to make them feel
better, does it matter what it is? Maybe they should be offered a voucher for
non-specific surgery after a mastectomy, so they can have liposuction, or a new
nose, if that is going to improve their body image and boost their self esteem.
Maybe I’ll write to the Health Minister about it. If the scheme is adopted,
I’ll keep the falsie and go for the tummy tuck.
©
Sue Hepworth 2019
2 comments:
Love this. LRH
I’m so glad. I wondered how you’d react to it.
Post a Comment