I was never more dependent on others, since my childhood days, than I was after my TRAM flap reconstruction, immediately following my double mastectomy.

I mean seriously, I was cut hip-to-hip, hardly able to walk upright let alone lift anything for weeks, all the while nursing a seriously sore chest that had been to battle and back. Some of you know first hand what I mean, don’t you? That particular surgery defines debilitation — it’s unreal.

When I first returned from the hospital, I learned some serious lessons about humility. I was officially bedridden, with more drains coming out of my body than I could count on one hand, a catheter for my urine because my system went on hiatus during my time away, and a case of constipation that sent my best friend to CVS in the middle of the night to clear the rack of Fleet enemas. (God blessed her tenfold that night, I assure you.)

I was afraid to be left alone in the house with my three children — God forbid something went wrong with one of them, I couldn’t be responsive. The mere thought of being the only adult in the house would have brought me to my knees were I not already permanently horizontal.

Night after night I cried at my dependence on others. Not just because I was forced to be humble, but because I was a mother for God’s sake, a mother! I was supposed to be the one caring for others in that phase of my life. I was too young for it to be the other way around. I was a mother … and I couldn’t even care for myself.

I knew I was blessed to have people driving my children to and from school each day. Making their meals. Doing their laundry. I was blessed … but so, so saddened by my inability to be the capable mother I’d previously been, doing the things that I perceived capable mothers did.

It seemed so wrong that while I was working so hard to foster my children’s independence, I had lost mine.

The Royal Society for the Promotion of Health published a paper a while back explaining that the aim that the child should grow up to become confidently independent is synonymous with the aim that he should grow up mentally healthy.

Confidently independent and mental healthy. Synonymous. Exactly. Therein lied my quandary. I no longer felt mentally healthy to boot.

That’s why I started to feel that with a loss of independence, my psyche had been dealt a more damaging blow during my recovery than my body.

Not being one to roll over and succumb to my diminished health, I did everything I was supposed to do to recover. I gave in to the help others were generously providing. I took it one day at a time, quite literally when I started to walk around my house. And I set small goals for myself (get to the bathroom by myself was one of my first goals on my list, believe you me!). Slowly but surely I regained my physical ability … so slowly but surely I started doing more things for myself.

One day, one particularly sunny, summer day, a friend of mine swung by to get me before she picked up my oldest son from school. My daughter, my middle son and I climbed into her minivan and drove the mile drive to the elementary school. We stood outside the doors waiting for the bell to ring and I stood there with tears in my eyes waiting for the doors to open and I stood there … waiting for my child to come out to see his momma.

The moment my child ran into my arms outside his school that day was the moment I realized I was back. Maybe not completely back physically, but completely back mentally. The moment my child ran into my arms … that was the moment I realized a new holiday had surfaced in my life. That day was My Personal Independence Day.

(Image: Karen Lynch)

Post from: Blisstree

My Personal Independence Day

You’re going to love Dr. Narayan,” my friend said to me as we talked over coffee one morning after my second diagnosis. “He did the neatest little trick with a cocktail napkin in his office when I met with him, showing me how he’d reconstruct my nipples if I chose to have a mastectomy. I almost wanted to have surgery just for those nipples he was promising me!

I did meet with Dr. Narayan to discuss my options before my double mastectomy. I waited in silence for the cocktail napkin trick. It never came. “Where’s the napkin nipples?” I asked, half joking, half serious.

“We’ll talk about nipples after your surgery,” Dr. Narayan replied. “First your body needs to heal from the primary surgery.” Which for me was something called a TRAM Flap. Dr. Narayan and his plastic surgery team at Yale would relocate my own abdominal muscle, tissue and yes, fat, to my chest and create two beautiful, symmetrical breasts. Without nipples, at least for the time being.

After that nine hour surgery and subsequent recovery, whether or not I had those nipples was completely irrelevant. I just wanted to heal.

“You know, a friend of mine buys her nipples at Nordstrom,” my mother in law said to me one day. Could she be serious, I thought? For kicks and giggles, I looked into it; Nordstrom does carry ‘breast petals,’ cover-up pasties to give you a smooth look under clothing. They don’t, however, carry the flat out nipple enhancers that you can find at Frederick’s of Hollywood.

But now, two years post-op and I’m starting to wonder. Is it time to consider that surgery? My gut says no, who cares. But sometimes I wonder …

Are nipples important? What do you think?

Post from: Blisstree

Breasts: With or Without Nipples?