Seven nights out from the last phase of breast reconstruction surgery, propped up on two pillows to protect my new nips, I had an odd dream. My sister Anne and I were shopping for clothes in a tiny boutique where we had to share a dressing room. As I reached for a beautiful blouse to try on it hit me. I had my old boobs. Yes, the big, unruly triple D’s were back. To make matters worse I had on NO BRA. It used to be I did not even walk around my bedroom without a bra, let alone go out in public without a mile of underwire, hooks and heavy-duty strappage.
2008. Left to right – my niece Emily, me, Anne, Mom. Seated, my other niece Katherine holding her new baby.
Like most dreams, the embarrassing scene floated away without any resolution or meaningful conclusion. While I’m still working on adjusting to the new version of me, I don’t miss those old cancerish troublemaking honkers. Spaghetti straps, camisoles and other skimpy things I could never wear will be in my future.
I am certain my sister floated into that dream because tomorrow it will be her turn for bilateral mastectomy with DIEP flap reconstruction. While I am at the doctor’s office getting the bolster dressings removed, she will be on the table. I ask that you send good karma her way and hope she is spared the complications I experienced. Send some good karma for my Mom too. Two daughters going through this ordeal this year has been difficult for her as well.
My Dad fathered three girls and a boy. His daughter from his first marriage has recurrent ovarian cancer. I had breast cancer at age 36. My sister Anne is the only girl in our generation who can claim the word previvor as her own. What does it mean to be a previvor? To me it means managing the choices of being at insanely high risk of breast and ovarian cancer. These choices include increased monitoring, chemoprevention or prophylactic surgeries. Make no mistake, all of these choices are difficult and none provide a true fix for the genetic defect.
I’m truly happy my sister Anne has chosen the route of prophylactic surgeries. Right now it is the most effective strategy we BRCA mutants have.
When we were kids it seemed like I went from being flat-chested to very well endowed overnight. My dear sister nick-named me “Saggy Maggy.” Not very nice. Over the years I endured lots of teasing, suggestive comments, leering and worse, all due to my stupid big boobs. Now I’m just looking forward to a future shopping trip with Anne, both of us free from cancer. Of course, she will still have that bubble butt and I will still have no butt at all, so there will still be other things to pick on. Some stuff never changes.
1964. Me and Anne on Halloween.