Body Image Revisited

The body image saga continues.  If you’ve read my memoir then you know that starting as early as 11 years old I struggled with body image.  I thought I was had finally conquered it in mid twenties, even if I was close to 250 pounds. I mean I deemed myself the Queen of Self -Esteem! For about 10 years after that, I was in a really good place. I had mastered posing so that the camera hit all of the right angles. I had come to love all of my flaws, finally accepting my lumps and bumps, and really focusing on what I loved about my body. Then 2015 came and I’d have to come to accept a new body. Just as I’m starting accept the fact that I have no feeling in my breasts (which I have now decided to call NOOBS -new boobs), and get happy that the foot and a half long scar across my abdomen is fading,  my incisional hernia enlarges and that’s ALL am able to see. I’m cognizant  of it all day long. Aside from the extreme physical discomfort, I find myself double checking mirrors and buying shirts that disguise the massive bulge protruding from my right lower quadrant. I haven't been this self-conscious when getting dressed in so long, it feels awkward. But it’s really because I do in fact feel self-conscious. And why? I  have yet to understand why this insecurity has crept back in my psyche. I mean before the surgery I gained like 50 pounds, and after the surgery I walked around for 6 months with no nipples or areolas? Why am I tripping?  I had no answer, so last week I decided to get back in the gym ( I have to keep it extremely light until and even months after my next surgery). It made a world of difference, because after one session, I was reminded of just how powerful and amazing my body is. Each chest press made me feel more and appreciative of my body and its journey. It reminded me that this shit is temporary and aesthetic. What matters is keeping it healthy for its next healing challenge! Here we go!

1 year later

It’s been a year (actually a little more than a year) since Toya

 the remix. I feel like I died and was born again on that day 

because my life has never been the same. Even when I  look 

at pictures of me I think "that was before the surgery."

First of all, I’m so much more appreciative of the brevity of life and the idea that at any second, it can all be over. So I’m all about living in the moment, taking chances, and not dealing with bullshit.  If a person, place or thing doesn’t bring me joy, then why involve myself?  Secondly, my body acceptance level is at an all-time high, I appreciate my body’s ability to repair itself.  During my first week home, I remembering   feeling like   I would never ever recover, never be strong again.   Mentally I am so much stronger, physically,   I’m still workin on it.  Each day gets better.   There are still days in which I feel a sting in my left  breast from scar tissue if I move the wrong way, I still have weakened muscles  in my abdominal wall which cause a hideous bulge to the lower right. If I stand too long, walk to long, it sticks out and hardens. It’s not a hernia, but it resembles one. It will be re-examined   when I go for my follow up next month. In the meantime, I’m celebrating my health by completing a 5k mud race for the American Cancer Society this weekend.

 If I have to complain, which I try not to, I will say that I feel

 somewhat ASEXUAL. Menopause topped with a complete 

of sensation in my noobies ( new boobs)  has my libido 

NONEXISTENT.  When I’m  dressed, I feel sexy. Even when I 

look at my body naked, aesthetically, I like what I see, but it’s 

the FEELING …the feeling of being a sexual being that is 

absent. 

THIS IS WHERE IT GETS TMI: how does one go 

about becoming aroused when they are consumed with the 

thought of vaginal dryness (even though lubricant is 

available) and the fact that what used to turn you on (nipple 

stimulation) is no longer an option? This is my current 

struggle. This is why I’m just not into sex with myself or 

anyone for that matter. At least not right now.  

Jumping the Gun: More Fipple problems

It's almost six o'clock on a Saturday and I've just been able to peel myself off the couch...kinda. I was so excited to finally see my new fipples, which look like they will be great once all these stitches dissolve. This was exactly one week after my surgery. My surgeon removed all of the bandages and instructed me to lubricate all of my wounds.

With bandages...don't they look perky? Relax they'll drop some later, but they are smaller

He used skin from underneath my foob to create the fipple

Here I am all oiled up. Can you imagine wearing a bra over this?

He forewarned me that it would be tricky finding the right bra for now, and for some reason, I didn't quite absorb that until I tried to actually wear one. On one hand I was told not to wear anything that could flatten out my new nipples, like the sports bras and  tanks with built- in bras I've grown to love. Then with my lovely  stitches in the uncomfortable spot underneath my breast, no underwires, or hell, any kind of bra. With my green light to go back to work I surely couldn't show up with my headlights beaming. So day one I wore a cupped Victoria's  Secret bra to allow room for my fipples. Unfortunately my day was filled with anguish. Firstly, I was back to driving and turns and backing out hurt all over. Secondly, that expensive ass bra sucked! It cut right into my sore spots, and it wasn't as supportive as my surgical tube top, so every time I bent down...ouch.
 After work I did what he had suggested in the first place, I got some nipples protector cups; the same ones for breast feeding mothers. i wore those with my go to sports bra and it was a better. However, by the end of the day, I was sore from the nipples protectors. Those things are not meant to be worn for 9 hours! So here I am exhausted from only 3 days of work, and uncomfortable unless I'm laying with pillows propped under my arms. It's surprising and disappointing to me
because week one went so well with the bandages and the tube top. No bra= no support, bra= support but flat nipples, or support but pain to my stitches. So I'm laying here for this reason and because  I'm tired. It I may even be slightly depressed; not at my fipples, because they are awesome, but because I'm not 100% and everyone that knows me, know I hate to slow down. I just have to remember that this is temporary, and by summer I'll be more back to normal. Damn Patience!

Happy Foob Year!

5 days later, here I am wearing the most hideous surgical garment ever. I mean the last ones were ugly, but they were all white and  made no attempt to be cute. However uncomfortable and unattractive this contraption, it does what it’s supposed to, which is support my newly lifted foobs and sewn on fipples.

 I have to say this surgery was a breeze compared to the last two. Aside from the fact that we had our first snow/sleet/ice storm the night before, which caused my surgeon to arrive 15 minutes late, everything went as planned. At 7:45am the anesthesiologist injected my IV with the feel good stuff. At 11:10 I was awakened by a nurse placing pillows under each side of my arms. She told me I could keep sleeping, which I did for another hour. Then I was ready to get up and go. My fiancée came for me, and other than feeling light headed and dizzy, I felt relieved; no more surgeries, I did it. I was home in time to watch Judge Mathis, which I eventually fell asleep on.  With the help of some narcotics, I slept on and off the rest of the day.  The next day, I was still groggy and my only discomfort were the stitches were underneath the foobs. It felt tight, and itchy, but nothing unbearable.  Because I wanted to celebrate with champagne on New Year’s Eve, I was hell bent on not taking any pain meds at all. So I sucked it up. My reward was spending my holiday surrounded by family, and wearing scarves and sweaters to cover up the bulky surgical tube top. I tried to go the whole week with only sponge baths, but once 2016 came around, I gave in, being sure not to wet my bandages. In two more days I will get to see an updated version of my foobs and fipples. 

At this point I’m not even excited about it because I’ve just become more and more accepting of my body no matter what it looks like. Besides, it’s amazing, I mean look at all it’s been through and it continues to heal and allow me to do whatever I set out to!

After the Storm:Foobs & Fipples

I’m beginning to feel like a pro. Wash all the clothes, clean the house, take out button up and zip up clothes (because I won’t be able to reach over my head), pick up my toddler all day (because I won’t be able to do that again for a few weeks) and prep him for mommy recovery again (he is not happy about it and threatened to punch the doctor’s for giving me boo-boos). Before I take my shower tonight I’ll take one last picture of my foobs before I get my fipples. The way my oncology gyno explained it is that he will pretty much do origami with my scar tissue and create semi erect fipples. In order for them to be even, my surgeon will do a freast lift, which means now I will be EXTRA perky.

I know it seems painful, But I have no sensation in my freasts

 Still it will be a couple of more months before Toya the Remix is complete and I finally get my areolas tattooed.  As prepared as I feel, because of course I’ve done the research, I still get nervous about going under. And while I know the pain will be minimal compared to last time, I hate pain and pain meds and being limited physically.  I know it’s temporary. I know it’s worth it, but I still get nervous. Who wouldn’t? And I’m still looking forward to spring when I will be healed much more internally so that I really get back in to my fitness. I mean what do I look like with a flat stomach, perky foobs, but jiggly arms and a flat ass??? And no, this is not me putting myself down. I  have loved my body through all its stages, but since I found out I need more stomach fat in order to have these nice breasts, I had to go through some major changes. Prior to all of this I was killing it at boot camp. I felt strong, powerful, I had some cut in my arms and my backside was getting good and round from thousands of squats. I tried it few weeks ago and I was filled with adrenaline as I pounded the medicine ball to the floor, and did jump squats and planks (I used to do 1 minute, now it’s like 15 seconds). But two days later I was almost incapacitated at work, abs were sore, the muscles underneath my boobs were sore, okay no sore, straight hurting. I had to quit. Okay, not quit, but postpone until 2016.

 I know I’m powerful, I’m still here. But I cannot wait to get back to being the weight lifting beast I was becoming last year around this time!

Storm- a friend gave me a little statue  of her to help me weather "The Storm"

 But wait is exactly what I have to do.  Tomorrow I check in at 6:00 am signing off. Later folks

Ok..So I'm still talking about My surgery!

Every time I deal with something that tests my patience, I think, this is it. This is my final exercise in patience. And it never is. Well  I can honestly say that recovery is truly a journey of patience. As I began to feel better and look better, I wanted to do so much more.  6 weeks after surgery I walked 3 miles for Breast cancer awareness and I felt great!

Me with my toddler right by side. I wore my compression belt and yes my face was pale from anemia

That was one of the many up and down moments. Down times like hating the feel of the compression belt, but loving it after trying to clean the house without. It was my comfort and my anguish. This was the same with the sports bra. My mind wanted to wear a nice underwire bra, but my body (and the doc) said hell no! Then there was the body dysmorphia. With so much going on physically, like that tingly  achy feeling in my foobs, who has time to be concerned with them being perky  and having  a flat tummy? Leggings have also offered a solace that jeans or pants with buttons couldn’t offer. My wardrobe was limited.  I was more self-conscious than ever with nipples foobs, great abs, an 18 inch scar, and pale skin my energy was limited. Every time the visiting nurse came my pulse was extra high, like 108. Apparently normal resting is between 60 and 100. Turns out I was anemic from losing so much blood during the surgery, nothing steak and eggs couldn’t handle.  What was most daunting was awaiting for that moment where I would be 100% (which by the way, still hasn’t happened yet).  Whenever I was about to hop on my pity train, I’d write on a pink slip something I was grateful for and put it in a jar one of my good friends got me.  It kept me focused to think about small things like, finally being able to bend over and pick up something off the floor, or to put a shirt of over my head. My awesome visiting nurse would remind me constantly that this was a journey and it would take more than 6 to 8 weeks for me to truly heal. I was forced to listen to my body, to sleep on demand, to eat on demand (apparently you can sometimes become ravenous as your body uses its energy to heal).

                 But then I returned to work, and I once again I had to adjust. No more sleeping when I ready, resting when I was ready. I was back and there was work to be done…lots. Teachers don’t sit behind a desk! We stand and walk (about 3 to 4 miles a day… I wore a pedometer just to test), we speak a lot and loudly (which requires oxygen).  We get excited, angry, and disheartened, sometimes all in one class period. And because you “look good” people think you are 100% both at home and at work! So it’s back to housework, and mommy work, and errands and and and  and.  AND…I’m still healing. Sometimes I get achy, some nights I return to my couch for a better night’s sleep. Sometimes I have to opt for my chaise lounge over attending social events (which really sucks). Or, and this just happened last week, I can return to boot camp and kick ass only to have awful, extraordinary soreness and pain two days later.  It’s times like these that I can quickly spiral into a funk. Especially knowing I’ll have to go one more surgery right after Christmas. Thankfully, most times I am able to pull myself out of this negative space. I have to remind myself, this is a choice. Always, a choice I had that other women in my family didn’t. With that being said, let the countdown to FIPPLES begin! And another lesson in patience as well.

From FREASTS to FOOBS: Part III: Recovery

WARNING: THIS POST CONTAINS GRAPHIC MEDICAL IMAGES and  one sexy image!

As my aunt wheeled me down the hospital corridor, I was mixed with emotions. Happy to be out the hospital… away from the substandard food, the constant interruptions from folks trying to get vitals, and from the inconsistency of great nurses and awful nurses. I would get to be in my house,  around my children, and the fact that I was being discharged meant that I was well on my way to recovery. But I was apprehensive, what if something went wrong? I had learned how to navigate my way from my hospital bed to the bathroom,  but  once again all of the research I had done indicated that I would have a hard time at home. It was recommended I get a shower chair, a raised toilet seat, and that I sleep in a recliner since I couldn’t fully stretch out.  (The recliner was and still is my best friend).

 The trip home left me depleted. With the help of my fiancé I got myself adjusted on the recliner sofa in the living room. That night both he and my toddler slept on the couch next to me. Every four hours my fiancé woke me up to take my meds so I wouldn’t have to be completely exposed to the pain. The next day, turned into two weeks of the monotony. Sleeping and awake at odd hours of the day and night; visits from my aunt angels, cousins, and good friends; meals being cooked and delivered; drains being emptied.

Oh the dreaded drains. The absolute worst part of this whole experience. Two hanging from each side of my upper rib to collect fluid from my Freasts (fake breasts) or what I now call FOOBS(fake boobs) and two hanging from either side of my hip to collect fluid from my abs. They had to be emptied and the disgusting fluid from them measured and documented.  Because of this, I wouldn’t need a shower chair, because I only took sponge baths. And I got to wear cotton old lady button up robes. Thankfully I had my aunt, and a very good friend who stepped in when the visiting nurse couldn’t.

courtesy of breastcancer.org

With all that was going on, there were some amazing facets of my recovery. First of all, I didn’t need that raised toilet seat. Turns out all those years of Pilates helped me build an awesomely strong core underneath that once thick layer of belly fat. It was much easier than anticipated. Secondly, I wasn’t totally freaked out by what I saw when I looked in the mirror. I mean, my foobies had no nipples, but still it wasn’t nearly as traumatic as I thought it would be. I think other people were more uncomfortable than me.

It was during this recovery I got to see who my real friends were. I was surprised by the number of people who reached out to me in some way, and disheartened by those who I expected would but didn’t. Still with so much love and support around me, I couldn’t dwell on it for more than moments at a time.

Each day I was more and more amazed at what my body could do, how it healed itself, regenerating cells and nerves and FOOBS!   

Perhaps the best part of recovery was 19 days after surgery when with the doctor’s clearance I was able to get dolled up and receive my 100 women of Color award for my work.  Not only did I receive an award alongside 99 other phenomenal women, I also  got my own holiday in my hometown! Sure I had to tiptoe around, sit while everyone else was socializing and I was exhausted after the 4 hour event, but  when they called my name, I strutted across that stage like my foobs weren’t still swollen, and my abs weren’t sore. Because that’s what you do once you dub yourself the Queen of Self-Esteem!

19 days post op... pretty sexy considering all that was going on underneath

The Journey doesn’t end here. Stay tuned as I continue on to the next stage of reconstruction on December 28^th. I'll get my Fipples 

 (fake nipples)

FREASTS: The Right Choice...Part II

When the alarm clock went off at 5:15am, I had only napped about an hour.  Although I was exhausted I was in good spirits. I had made peace with my decision and the changes it would bring. But I did tear up when I kissed my toddler as he slept, praying I would see him again. I went in alone, which was what I needed. As I lay in pre op, I meditated and focused on coming out of surgery and healing like a rock star. I was so calm as I changed into a gown, emptied my bladder, got weighed one last time (Whoa) and let them begin to hook me up to all of the machinery. I answered the same questions over and over about allergies, last time I ate, etc. Then my handsome (in a quirky way) plastic surgeon came in and marked up my body. When I told him how much I’d miss my belly button, he told me I would still have the same belly button, it would just be moved. This gave me comfort.  
Then the anesthesiologist  came in, explaining that I would have an a an epidural that would numb my chest muscles so that I wouldn’t feel pain when I awoke.  I leaned over on a pillow; the nurse held my hand, and the needle in my lower back was the last thing I remembered. 
This is what was happening while I was completely unaware:

 My oncologist would cut and remove both of my breasts, removing the fat, the muscle, mammary glands and all. Her reputation is that she is thorough and would scrape away all of the breast tissue. Like all. Next, my brilliant plastic surgeon and his team would begin what is called DIEP flap reconstruction.According to BreastCancer.org, DIEP stands for the deep inferior epigastric perforator artery, which runs through the abdomen.  In other words, they would cut a large portion of skin and fat from my lower stomach, and then transplant them to my chest wall in the shape of breasts. Crazy, right?  But not simple. It involves microsurgery, reattaching the veins and arteries one at a time.

This is a diagram showing one breast. I had both breasts removed and reconstructed

For my surgical team, it took 15 hours total.

 This meant that while my family thought I’d be done by 8 or 9pm, I was not out of surgery until after 1am (Tuesday).

            When I opened my eyes, my two aunts were there like angels…

Gloria(L) and Saundra(R) my mother's sisters

 because my vision was blurry. I was distracted by the breathing tube that was still in my throat. Panic set in, medical staff tried to calm me, but I kept trying to speak. I could hear myself saying, I can’t breathe, I was gagging telling them to please take it. When they didn't listen, I tried to remove it. I felt people grabbing my arms and I heard “Sedate Her” , which they must have because the next thing I remember  (12 hours later apparently)  I was waking up with straps on my wrists. But at least the breathing tube was gone. What I didn’t understand in my panic was that they had to keep it in because, just like with any transplant, there was the risk that my chest wall wouldn’t take its new FREASTS. If the tissue didn’t stay alive, they would have to take me back into the OR and remove those. Not to mention, they needed to make sure my throat wasn’t too swollen and that I could breathe on my own. Which was kinda important.This is why I was in the ICU, being checked in half hour intervals. I was under heavy IV pain meds (thank God) so the first 24 to 36 hours were a blur of nurses brushing my teeth, wiping my dry cracked lips and putting petroleum jelly on them, cold cloths on my forehead, I remember them being so great, and feeling comforted despite the fact that I could only open my eyes seconds at a time, and my voice was weak. Unfortunately, I also had a fever of 102 and they worked vigorously to drop it down with IV medication. What I also was unaware of was that they were trying to keep me awake and get my body’s systems going. One of the nurses had me verbally complete the health care proxy form and sign off on it.  I had no concept of time; I just remember when they told me it was safe to move me out of ICU and into a regular room because my FREASTS were still viable. As they wheeled me on a stretcher, I passed a blond haired, fairly young, handsome doc. He introduced himself (I can’t remember his name) and said that he was on the surgical team. He told me I was brave and bad ass for my decision and that I made the right choice.

          According to my family, I was out of ICU by mid-morning on Wednesday and into my room. It was there I remembered that I was going to be a rock star in terms of doing what I needed to heal quickly. I asked that the catheter be removed so I could go to the bathroom on my own. (Why not, I was on morphine?).  It was so weird. I didn’t feel pain, I just felt stiff and tight as I walked in  cave man like baby steps, escorted by a nurse. I still had a low grade fever, so they were constantly checking in on me; they still needed to check the FREASTS every 1 to 2 hours.  I remember it was hard for them to find that swooshing sound in my left breast, so that had to put it in a special spot.

They put on a surgical bra, which I would grow to hate over the next 3 weeks, which matched my waist binder, which I’d grow to love and hate. They wanted me to sit in a chair. I did, and I slept there. But I also walked the hall, ambulating like it was suggested. I was determined to be model patient.

 The next few days would include daily visits from my angel aunts, my fiancé, and my uncle, and special visits from cousins, my dad, my brother, my oldest son, and my sister.   It was my sister and one of my closest friends who took a lesson in how to change my drains (we’ll discuss those in part 3).  I had my friend take this picture of me:

I wanted to document this journey, which would be hard because apparently I had multiple conversations under the influence of drugs that I don’t remember. It was a blur of Law and Order SVU reruns in the TV, multiple sleep interruptions, wraps on my legs to prevent blood clots, breathing into devices to restore my lungs, picking out my meals, taking sponge baths. Great nurses and PCAs, and awful nurses. Looking at the clock, not sure if it was 4am or pm.

The day my fiancé finally brought my toddler to come see me, it all came full circle. He was soooo happy to see me. At one point I glanced up at my wall chart with all of the nurse’s names and the date. It was Friday, September 4th. The anniversary of my mother’s transition. I looked at my toddler, I was about his age when I would go see my mother at the hospital, and like I saved my dessert for him, she’d save her dessert for my sister and I. It was mind-blowing to me, and I was rushed with emotion.  I was sad for the little girl in me who had no idea that one of the times she left the hospital would be the last time she saw her mother. I felt sad as a mother, for my mother, who at 23 knew she wouldn’t be around to see her kids, and that one of those hospital visits would be that last time she’d hug her little girls.  But I felt grateful that because of modern medicine, I would be there. I would be there for my toddler, and despite missing me dearly, he’d see me again. That doctor was right; I’d made the right choice.

My oldest son

My 4 year old

FREASTS: The last night Part I

Here I am at the 6 week mark for my surgery, and the whole experience has been surreal. Rewind to the last week of August, which was pure chaos for me. It was the first week of professional development for educators and I had to be a presenter. While my summer was great I was feeling extra fat because I needed to put extra meat on my stomach for the surgery and well, I did. Let’s be clear, you cannot spot gain  weight just like you cannot spot lose, so I was feeling plump in all areas. My breasts were the largest they'd
been in a long time and my weight was close to its highest. Therefore I only had like 2 bras I could fit and a few maxi dresses. I was highly emotional all of the time. I was like a pregnant mother nesting, preparing my house for the week would be in the hospital, preparing my toddler for  mommy being "at the doctor’s" for days and him not being able to climb on mommy or mommy not being able to pick him up when I came back. I was decorating a classroom and getting lesson plans ready for my extended absence  (8 to 12 weeks). This meant staying after school for 2 to 3 hours daily while all of the other teachers rushed off to enjoy their last days of summer. I was preparing for a surgery that would not only change my body, but would change my life! The week was flying by as I felt like there wasn't enough time for to complete my to-do list. My surgery was scheduled for August 31, the first day of school for students. I would not be there,  instead I'd be on an operating table being sliced and diced.

  It would be a 10 to 12 hour surgery, I was nervous about not coming out of it alive, I was anxious about how I would react to my “Toya the Remix”. What if I hated my freasts (fake breasts)? What if I looked at this new pair without nipples and with big scars and I panicked?  What if they were lopsided, or my abdominal scar was atrocious? I know supposedly the internet is not your friend when it comes to medicine but I did extensive research, sometimes at 2 and 3am, looking at other people’s scars, finding recovery tips, and while it helped me prepare my home, it definitely put my anxiety at an all-time high. I couldn’t sleep at night. I almost had panic attack thinking about going under and the type of pain I’d have to endure. 

 The only thing that took my attention away was the deadline for my comprehensive exam for my doctoral degree.  I couldn't continue with my dissertation until I passed. It was due September 8, no exceptions, no excuses, even medical (Please believe me, I tried). It was more than 60 pages long. And I would have to complete it a week early if I wanted to succeed.

 Fast forward to the night of Sunday, August 30^th ...the longest night ever. My hospital bag was packed, the house was spotless, everyone was asleep and I had done more research on the procedure than I needed. I had two Reiki sessions and had been put on many prayer lists, so in terms of the actual procedure, I was felt relaxed and prepared. There was only one thing weighing heavily on my mind.I knew I had to finish the exam before I went under because I knew there was no way I’d be able to write coherently once I came out of surgery. As I made edits, my eyes were strained, I wasn't sure if I was thinking clearly. I was hungry as hell, but doing the mandatory fasting, not even water.I had a toddler meltdown at about 1:00am thinking, I should just give up, I should just wait until next semester and retake it, even if it meant more loan money. I wanted my peace of mind; I needed my peace of mind. And then I heard this little voice, scratch that, a big voice tells …  BULL SH*T! You are Brenda’s Child, there’s no giving up! You busted your ass on this for a month and now you wanna quit!?

 The voice sounded a lot like Tom Hanks in a League of Their Own. But instead of yelling “There’s no crying in baseball” he was saying “There’s no giving up. People are counting on you. You aren’t a hypocrite are you? Follow Through.”  

So I did. I finished my paper at 3:34 am. I still didn't hand it in. I closed my laptop, went into the bathroom and looked at my for the last time. I felt my erect nipples for the last time, realizing I'd never know what that would be like again.

 I took a selfie of my extra-large, gravity-stricken breasts and my stomach, that since my first son was born 18 years ago, had looked like two large lips frowning.  I looked at my red sleepy eyes and then I shrugged my shoulders before I took what would be my last shower for 3weeks. Screw it, I’d sleep under anesthesia. I was going to let everything go and clear my mind for the surgery I had to report to at 5:45am.  I was signing off. 

Bittersweet Choices

   

     Even though I’m consumed with
 my dissertation, I am also

 preparing for the biggest, most complex surgery of my life; my mind and spirit are all over the place.  First off, I am beyond grateful that because of technology I am able to take steps to prevent the breast cancer that took my mother away at such a young age. But when I look at my toddler, I’m sad because my sister and I were so close to his age when she passed away. My baby is 3 ½ and he comes looking for me in the middle of the night. I couldn’t imagine not being there for him, and knowing that I was dying and wouldn’t get to see him grow up. My oldest son just graduated high school, and last week I took him to get his college ID. My mom missed that. My grandmother missed that. And so many other things in between. So lately I’m extra attached to both of them (even though the teen is totally not feeling mom). 

    Then I feel blessed again because it was my choice to wear 

my fabulous wigs, and to chop all my hair off, and it wasn’t the case for my grandmother. I remember coming home from school one day and she was sitting on the couch with a pile of hair in her lap. She explained to me that it was an effect of her chemo. Looking back, her wigs were in no way as beautiful as her once long dark hair.  And when it grew back, it looked a lot like mine does now, just gray. I have options, and it’s amazing, and it’s still scary and bittersweet.

      Then there's my mortality, something I struggled with so

much as a young person, so much that I refused to wear bandanna scarves because I remember my mother wearing them while she was in treatment. 

Now that older, and I’ve outlived my mother, it’s coming into a play again.  I’m going under the knife for 10 to 12 hours. YIKES!!! I’ll be in ICU;  in the hospital away from my baby for 5 days. I’ll have to look at my breasts without nipples or areolas for about 6 months. I will have a huge horizontal scar across my abdomen; I’ll try best to look at that with gratitude because I have a choice. That choice doesn’t involve radiation, chemo, or not being here to see my sons grow and evolve. I have a choice, but it doesn't mean I'm still not apprehensive.

Brave or Afraid?

As I watch Angelina Jolie make the news once again for her “heroic” decision to undergo another surgery to eliminate her ovarian cancer, I think…it’s a big deal, but it’s not a “big” deal. What I mean by this is that  people do what  Angelina did all of the time  but no one pays attention because, well they aren't a sex symbol, movie star, or poster woman for  a thousand and one humanitarian organizations. I know because the women in my family have been doing it for over 10 years, including myself.

            My mother died of breast cancer at only 23 years old. Her mother died of ovarian cancer at 57. My mother’s sister also died of ovarian cancer before age 60. Of my mother’s three remaining sisters, two have had their ovaries removed upon turning 40, and one also opted to have a preventative double mastectomy with reconstruction.

            According to one study, only 1/3 of African American women who meet the criteria for genetic testing are actually referred. I was only referred because I insisted  testing for the BRCA1 and BRCA2 gene mutations. If positive, I would have had up to a 60% of developing ovarian cancer in my lifetime and up to an 85% chance of developing breast cancer. After receiving my results in the fall of 2014, I elected to also have my ovaries and fallopian tubes removed last month at age 36. Within the next year, I too will have a double mastectomy with reconstruction.

            I didn't once look at it as brave, but almost as necessary. While my results were negative, there was variant, which means there was a mutation that could be linked to cancer, but that it hasn't been determined yet. However, recent research has indicated that there are more genetic mutations being discovered that could be linked to cancers. As African-American women specifically, we develop breast cancer at an earlier age and it tends to be more aggressive. So while I’m no world famous icon, I am a member of a medically under served population who has experienced the trauma of watching loved ones suffer from the disease. Therefore, I choose to act.  Being a career mom and dream chaser, surgery is scary; recovery has been and will be difficult. What’s more unbearable at this moment in my life, is hearing those dreaded words, “You have cancer.” That doesn't make me a hero, it makes me afraid. 

Read the full version here http://www.forharriet.com/2015/04/why-i-chose-to-fight-cancer-by-removing.html

BAD ASS!

This photo represents one BADASS woman who is feeling fearless, optimistic, confident, and blessed! 10 years ago, I was riddled with apprehension about my future, consumed with thoughts of what if I am next?  Next to have breast cancer. And in my vanity, I thought about losing my cleavage, my hair, my eyes brows…my life. I reasoned with myself, girl you can get new boobs, and you wear weaves and wigs anyway. They are just body parts. But still, no matter how hard I tried to convince myself, I was still afraid.

                Now that I’m over 30, with my cancer-filled family history, it’s time to face facts and be preventative. I’ve been doing Breast Self-Exams since I was 12 because if you know my story, you are aware that my mother succumbed to breast cancer at only 23. Her mother and one of her sisters also battled ovarian cancer and died in their 50’s. Science has found that there is a link between the two. So in addition to the mammograms that began at 30, last month I sought genetic testing. Apparently, this BRCA testing can identify two genes that will predict my chances for developing either or both. What this means for me is that if the test results are positive, I have an 87% of developing breast cancer. Whoa! Right?  (A lot higher than the 8% chance the rest of the female population has) I will also have about a 50% chance of developing ovarian cancer throughout my lifetime.  As scary as it sounds, thanks once again to science, there are options for how to deal with it, which includes having all of the above mentioned removed and a bit of reconstructive surgery.  But before I jump to conclusions, I will have to wait to get the results in a few weeks.

                Facing my own mortality has somehow put a little more oomph in my already vibrant spirit.  My thinking has changed so much over the years, from thoughts of doom to assurance; mostly because I’m living in my purpose EVERY SINGLE DAY. So while many people are searching aimlessly for theirs, I discovered mine around the same age my mother was when she passed away. I am living for all of those who did not.  I have legacy on my shoulders to carry, one that I don’t find burdensome, but more like honorable. So this is why I will hold nothing back and continue to be the BADASS I was destined! Shine on!