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

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

The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow

Yesterday I didn't get up when my alarm clock went off, so I lost 20 to 25 minutes of preparation, including breakfast.  It was snowing outside and the ride to work was long and treacherous. My teenage son was defending his failure to do chores through text messages. my toddler had been up all night complaining if growing pains. So I had McDonald’s and drank coffee, and Diet Coke and Pepsi (I know so bad). And I ordered a pastrami grinder with potato chips for lunch, just because I knew it would feel good. All to stay awake so I could work on my research (through my lunch and my break) so I can get one step closer to becoming Dr.Boz.  By the end of the day, I’d run out of steam. I mean I was too tired to even drink my Thursday night glass of Cabernet. On top of that, I had a headache and cramps, and it was cold outside. I was exhausted and cranky. But I was supposed to continue working on my writing which is due in a week. Instead, I decided to change into my sweats, take two ibuprofen, and drink tons and tons of water, and some decaf green tea.  I whipped up some quick chili for the family then I turned the lights down low, got lost in some mindless “reality” TV. When I got sleepy, I went to sleep. Robert Roberts once said that her mother told her,  "When you are having a bad day, just go to bed." I told myself that if I slept well tonight I would have more energy to keep fight tomorrow. 

Robin's mother was right. I was right. I woke this morning, made my eggs, and a healthy, vitamin-filled shake with almond milk for lunch.  I felt energized and yes, ready to finish that work. I feel so good that I had to write this post to share my take away from the last 24 hours.

 First, sometimes you just have to stop and take a break from whatever it is to rejuvenate, clear your head. Balance will be restored naturally. I ate horribly yesterday and drank horribly, but today I’m craving good stuff. My attitude was horrible, not just because of PMS, but also because I was frustrated with the challenges I was facing. When I get overwhelmed, I become a bit snappy, I become lethargic. Secondly, I was reminded that everything is temporary. The fact is I will have some major writing to do this weekend, but next Friday, I will be done. Sometimes we have to focus on the end result instead of dwelling on the struggle. When you are sinking you have to put your energy into swimming to land, not into the thoughts of drowning. #ICanDoThis

On Martin Luther King’s Birthday

With the release of the movie Selma, I’ve seen many social media posts of people being surprised by MLK’s adultery. My first thought was that it was no secret. Sure, they didn’t share this with us when we were taught in school, but I really thought folks new about this. My second thought was that he was indeed a man, a human, someone capable of mistakes and intentional wrongdoings. But it’s hard for some to conceive that about this figure, whom we’ve dedicated a national holiday to, whom we built a monument in honor of , whose lines from the “I have Dream” speech are embedded in our memory since elementary school, and  for many the only  positive male African-American figure they were ever taught.

            I mean think about it… this man was thrust into leadership at 26 with the Montgomery Boycott. When he led that march in Selma he was just 36 year old. I am 36 years old today, and there are already times I feel the weight of the world on my shoulders with the responsibility I have to our youth. I could only imagine living under the constant fear of death for my family and myself, to have my home bombed and still have to go and speak to people who look to me for leadership and hope. And I’m sure that sense of power was equally ego-boosting, so much that, yes MLK “hollered back” when women smiled his way, or showed  up at his hotel room. Groupie love isn’t just for musicians and movie stars. These flaws serve to remind us that although we have our weaknesses; we are capable of incredible greatness, a greatness that cannot be erased I am still in awe at not only the strength of him and his wife, but of all the others who trusted his leadership, who believed when there was reason to doubt, who risked their lives and freedom for us.  I dedicated one of my poems called Our Legacy to them:

 “The Legacy you leave starts today,

 And you can say

That you don’t care,

But you are only here

 Because Martin and Malcolm both died

 At the age of 39

For the sake of equality,

 Because millions marched and protested

 In the name of freedom

And now you owe it to them…
toy carry on our legacy.”

What legacy will you leave?

The Right Amount of Sunshine

I am going to sell 6million copies worldwide of this book! I put it out there in the universe, and I know it is already happening. Through reaching my dream, I am going to inspire so many other girls (and boys) of color who grow up with the odds against them. They will know because they see me. We hear these stories all of the time about being making it from homeless to Hollywood, like Tyler Perry for instance. But sometimes it's hard to say "If he can do it, so can't I!" if he wasn't your neighbor and you didn't know him personally. I think that's why so many of us have such a hard time believing it's possible. I want my students to say, "OMG, Miss Toya really did it! She was not playing when she said she was going to blow up off her memoir!" It will be momentous because they have seen how hard I have worked, they know about the multiple jobs, and the extra time I put into making my dreams come true. Sometimes they still can't understand why I do things like mail my book to Wendy Williams, Oprah and Michelle Obama. They think they will either never get it, or never read. I tell them, BELIEVE, BELIEVE.