Well, that's definitely bigger than I will need.
I laughed in the doctor's office thinking about the giant pitcher that I had put on my Amazon wish list and a friend had sent me.
Because I had thought I would need something that big.
Everything I read online had talked about these drains after surgery.
That I would have all this liquid coming out of me and I would need somewhere to measure it.
My brain created images of massive amounts of fluid pouring out of my body like I had never seen before.
There was no rationalizing with it.
Or even thinking any deeper about how big of a measuring device I would actually need for this job.
Just the overinflated images that my brain conjured.
And I now had this image in my mind as I was holding the actual drain in my hand as the nurse described stripping them to me and my husband.
I looked at him, and he knew exactly what I was thinking.
I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud.
Because this was serious business we were talking about.
Post-surgery care is serious business.
And she only had an hour to answer our questions and tell us all the things that we needed to know.
There was a binder, for goodness' sake.
In just a handful of days, I would be going under anesthesia in one body and waking up in another.
A body I had never seen before.
A body I hadn't chosen.
A body that would still be mine, even if it didn't feel like mine yet.
I don't know that you are ever really prepared for that.
Missing My Nipples After Mastectomy
Like so many things in life, we just kind of bumble our way through them and do our best with what we have.
Sitting in the office listening to the nurse talk about a binder and stripping the drains and fatty deposits that will clog them up, I felt pretty numb to the idea.
I remember thinking about my nipples.
Some people have the option to keep theirs.
I didn't.
Because my type of cancer had progressed into my skin, they had to take my nipples to give me the best shot at never having the cancer come back.
In the weeks leading up to the surgery, I suddenly felt this pressure to do as much with them as I could.
And also this standoffishness toward them.
Like the sensation was too much.
Looking back, I wish I had done more with my nipples.
That sounds absurd to say, but damn, do I miss my nipples.
"You don't realize what you have until it's gone," they say.
And it's a cliché for a reason.
Because it's true.
The way that your nipples feel as they rub inside your shirt.
Or the way they feel when your husband holds them while you're being intimate.
Don't get me wrong, there are some perks (wink, wink) to not having breasts.
Like, my bar path when I am weightlifting is b.e.a.u.tiful.
I don't have to wear a bra anymore.
Men don't really look at me anymore.
Or if they do, it isn't to ogle me anymore.
It's this look of confusion.
And then they carry on with their lives and leave me the hell alone.
It's a pretty big perk, honestly.
Creating the Mask: Body Image After Mastectomy
The downside of it that I wasn't expecting was the way I began to question my own identity.
The way insecurity quietly started to creep into my body.
Into the way that I stood.
Crossing my arms in front of my body became my natural body position.
Mostly because it felt comfortable for the first time ever.
But also because somewhere inside me, I wanted to hide my chest.
I felt lumpy and bumpy and strange.
I started wearing more makeup than I ever had before.
I wore perfume and jewelry and made sure that my hair was always done just right.
So that there was no confusion about my gender.
Because without my breasts, I worried the world would see me as a little less female.
I didn't talk about it for a long time.
I just showed up in the spaces and places around me.
And tried to carry on as if everything was alright.
And it slowly felt like it was eroding away who I actually am.
Dropping the Mask and Finding Myself Again
Because I am not the daily makeup wearer.
I have never really worn perfume every day because of the work that I do.
I only wear jewelry if I am getting "fancy."
And one day I wrote about it.
And it shifted.
I slowly started wearing less makeup.
One less eyeshadow color at a time.
Until I wasn't wearing any eyeshadow at all.
Then the mascara was too much.
Then I was just wearing blush and bronzer.
Then even that felt like more than I needed.
Something about acknowledging the mask made it easier to remove the mask.
It made it easier to ask myself, "Do you actually want to wear this, or are you trying to live up to an expectation you have in your head about who someone else believes you should be?"
And I don't really want to be someone else's expectation of me.
I just want to be me.
So I slowly let it all go.
I still have a few things that I wear that make me feel good about myself.
And that's okay.
Because I'm also allowed to feel pretty.
And not having breasts doesn't make me any less female than I was when I had them.
If I'm honest, my chest wasn't that impressive to begin with.
I hadn't worn a real bra in at least 20 years and didn't really need to.
My husband and I joke that all of this would have been so much more sad if I had had fantastic tits.
I know, I know, that's not very nice.
But sometimes you've got to have a little dark humor to get through all of this.
And there is a lot to get through.
Amazon Doesn't Make a Wishlist for This
I had spent so much time trying to prepare for the physical parts.
I bought the giant pitcher.
I knew about the drains.
I knew about the binder and the pain medication and sleeping upright.
Nobody told me I might start wearing makeup every day because somewhere inside me I was afraid strangers wouldn't see me as a woman anymore.
There wasn't anything on my Amazon wish list for that.
I still struggle to look in the mirror at my scars.
Not because they are graphic or horrible.
They aren't anymore.
But because I don't feel like they are me.
And I am going to have reconstructive surgery soon anyway.
So I feel this sense of "why bother."
I don't know if that's the right move.
My therapist would probably tell me that there is space for all versions of me.
But this one feels harder to allow since she is only here for a few moments.
And she represents such a hard period of my life.
She feels like the culmination of all the lifesaving measures that I had to go through.
The things that were done to me for good reason.
That I didn't feel like I had all that much of a choice.
Of course I had a choice.
But what kind of choice is that?
Don't do it?
Then what?
Leave my family without me?
Don't get to see my kids grow up?
Miss every friend's birthday and wedding from now until forever?
No.
If you ask me, no pair of tits is worth that.