I, Wonder Woman

Finally, after 4 months I am able to sit down and write about what  was (I am claiming it) my last surgery. Honestly this one was so much more traumatic that all of my previous surgeries, so much so that I have avoided writing about it. There was no comical spin to put on it, and I still struggle finding  a positive spin ( other than the fact that I’m still alive).  Initially I was supposed to check in Friday, and be home by Monday, Tuesday the latest. I planned accordingly, making sure I did laundry, cleaned the house, arranged for childcare and pick up of my then 5 year old. In my  mind, I was thinking, nothing is as extreme as my previous surgery. That was 15 hours of surgery, this would be like 6, no more than 8. This was only my stomach, not my stomach and breasts. It would be a breeze, I was ready for it…or so I thought. My surgeon after all, told me she was the "Hernia Guru" and I love a confident women. I especially love that she showed up in a Wonder Woman surgical hat, and matching socks. Wonder woman is my ring tone, Wonder Woman is kick ass. We were gonna kick that hernia’s ass. And she reminded us of how Lucky a day it was 7/7/17 !!!! Then she started explaining things. As I heard the words epidural, catheter, my blood pressure shot up like 30 points on the monitor and I had to breathe it out. As afraid as I was there, was no turning back. 

My aunt took this picture as I tried to stay calm listening to the surgeon

The surgeon would make a vertical incision from the middle of my ribs to my pubic bone. In a procedure called component separation, she would cut muscles from my obliques on both sides, stretch them to build a new abdominal wall. Then, to secure the newly stitched wall,  attach a mesh all the way from my ribs to my hip bones before sealing me up. Below is a diagram.

Initially when I woke up, the pain was much more intense than what I thought it would be. So they drugged me up with Morphine, a few other narcotics that put me to sleep, but that was all they did. I was still in pain. They wanted me to ambulate, but I was in so much pain. When they allowed me to eat, I couldn’t because I was in too much pain. On top of that I had a fever for about 2 days.   On the 3^rd morning after my surgery, I attempted to give myself a sponge bath because I was tired of having people wipe my ass, and bathe me. I needed a new surgical binder that wasn’t stained with crusty blood. The pain was so excruciating that when my aunt (who thank God was also my nurse for the day) knocked on the bathroom door to ask how I was doing, I broke down into weak cry., a whimper. Boy, was it humbling to have my aunt, who used to change my diapers, have to bathe me…everywhere. 

She handled business and then an X-ray was ordered, and an enema… perhaps I was constipated (which is worsened by narcotics). While she set up my bed, I eased into the hospital chair. Suddenly I became overwhelmed with nausea and began violently vomiting bile. My aunt had to hold the bag, so I could support my stomach as it was jerking involuntarily.  Horrific pain. Apparently, I had an ileus, or what they call bowel obstruction. A serious one. It appears my digestive system had never fully awakened after surgery, which explained the reason oral medications were ineffective; they were not being digested. Everything was stuck in my stomach and esophagus. It made sense, I was swollen everywhere and my skin was clammy and discolored.

   Within the next 10 minutes my aunt was holding me down as another nurse stuffed a tube up my nose and into my throat while I gagged and cried. For the next 24 hours, the NG tube would pump my digestive track of everything and my stay at the hospital would be extended while my digestive functioning was observed. Which meant 24 hours of nothing, followed by 24 hours of liquids, and 24 hours on solids for a total of 3 more days.

Recovery at home was equally tough the first few days. Last time I had major surgery I had a live in partner who could help me. This time on I was my own with bathing (2 weeks before I took a real shower), letting things fall to the floor because I couldn’t pick them up, and the constant pinching of drains.  It was sleepless nights, and spells of helplessness The worst part was eating, because the peristalsis was excruciating, I felt like I could feel every bite of food work its way through my body for at least 2 days. 

check out the hernia through my dress.

                                   side angle of the hernia before surgery

              I found it so much more difficult to focus on the positive this time around. Yes the hernia was gone, but at that time it meant a shift in the type of pain I experienced. Because I feared any further intestinal problems, I rejected narcotics for pain management and stuck with ibuprofen and Tylenol. Ouch!

           

Over the last four months my body has been amazing all over again in regaining its strength and stamina. I’ve swallowed tears of frustration when I returned to my workout and couldn’t do anything, or I was so exhausted from jumping back into work, I’d get nauseous.  For a year and half I tried to cover this massive hernia, but now I’m trying to disguise my belly which now only looks about 4 months pregnant. It still feels tight and sore on extra busy days at work, and my ab power is severely diminished but I’m forcing myself to remain patient and remember that in due time, the swelling will decrease, the strength will increase, and while I’ll never be the same, I’ll feel confident in my physical appearance and power again. And if I’m lucky, one of these days I’ll see the lesson in all of this. I thought I mastered body gratitude, life gratitude, patience? Well, it's not mastered, but I've had many lessons. What do you think is the possible lesson? I Wonder.

Left top- hernia, Right top-1 week post op, bottom left- 2 weeks post op, bottom right- 2 months post op

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.  

Sex is H.E.R.S

Let’s talk about sex. Okay, not so much sex as much as sexual empowerment.

This topic has come up recently since I’ll be hosting an erotic poetry event. As I spoke to people about this at various networking events, some were surprised that I would be a part of such things. I politely explained on more than one occasion that female empowerment is political, psychological, spiritual and definitely physical. As a matter of fact, the older I get the more I strongly I feel about the physical. 

I remember  valuing my virginity as a teenager. I held onto it until I was almost 18.  Once my 5-year relationship was over, I was determined to limit my number of partners to the number of fingers I had on one hand. When I surpassed that, I remember lying to men who asked how many I had been with so as not taint the image they had of me. Then I grew a little older, and while I had not reached my toes yet in terms of numbers, when I was honest about the number of partners I had, it was held over my head consistently. 

Why is it that women are made to feel that their value is somehow lessened by the number of men they slept with, casual or not? I had safe sex, great sex, not so great sex, and I don’t believe in regrets. Now I’m not saying women should just throw their “gifts” around in the name of empowerment, but what I am saying is that if you value yourself, and your body,  you're safe, it's consensual  and you get all of your regular screenings, it’s none of anyone’s business who you sleep with. 

Now that I’m close to forty and I pity the next man that even shapes his mouth to ask me how many men I’ve slept with. In the words of Beyoncé: 

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)

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.

I FINALLY LOVE MY BULKY BELLY

There is something awesome and mind blowing about really, truly beginning to love your body. As I am thinking more and more about my impending double mastectomy, which involved taking the lovely fat from my abdomen to replace the breast tissue, I’m thinking about the parts of miss I’ll miss. Each blemish and scar tells a story, and I am just now getting it. The stretch marks I abhorred as a 19 year old, I now treasure as a reminder that my grown man was once a baby growing inside of me. A baby.  A baby who I loved and shaped into a grown up. Not one baby, but two babies. 

 I have scars from having my gall bladder removed at 22, which reminds of when I was highly over weight and unhealthy.  According to the doctors chart, I’m still over weight. But at 22, I was living off snickers bars, Pepsi soda, and KFC because I was working so much and on the go. I wasn’t exercising, I was eating lots of white starches and simple crabs, and mindfulness was a foreign concept to me. It was after this procedure I rediscovered exercise, switched to ground turkey and whole grains, and made water an addiction. Not to say, I still don’t crave fries and pizza, but I made life long changes that I could commit to. I discovered, meditation, pilates, yoga, zumba that I could do a 5k.
 On my lower right side is the scar from when I had my appendix removed.  And I was 7, so it was the old school "cut you open", in the hospital for 2 weeks, type of surgery. This little 2 inch long scar transports me back to that moment when I was in the hospital crying   “No” because the doctors said that I would need surgery immediately.  My father was so disturbed by my tears, he cried.I remember overhearing my grandmother tactfully tell him to basically man up, come back in the room and tell me that I was having the surgery and I would be okay. I was okay. I missed Halloween that year, but I got to get a happy meal with a chocolate shake in one of those jack-o’-lantern trick or treat buckets 
 as one of my first meals in the hospital. 


My latest scar is from having my ovaries removed the beginning of my journey to combat a disease that my grandmother and mother didn’t have the opportunity to.  And perhaps the most precious part of my stomach is my belly button...  proof that I was one connected physically to my mother by this remnant of an umbilical cord. And though a flat stomach is stomach I’ve always desired since Janet Jackson first introduced me to midriff, I love my ample, imperfect stomach, rolls and all. It still surprises me that today I’m so enamored by a part of my body that was the bane of my existence from age 11.