Blessed- with my fake boobs

No, seriously – I mean it.

Yes, there is the occasional moment where I think the new girls feel a bit awkward, or unnatural.  There is the occasional moment when I look in the mirror and try to remember what the old girls looked like, and what it was to have nipples instead of scars.

Then I get over it.

And I think about how comfortable and natural it was last night, as I held my exhausted daughter and she rested her head on this size A silicone that sits where my old boob was.  She didn’t even hesitate.  She didn’t mention it being weird or unnatural.  She didn’t notice.

And my husband, who means it when he says over and over – “I am just so glad you are here.”  And, I believe him.

I am blessed to have had great surgeons, a superb support system, and the “push” to say goodbye when it was time.

A year ago I still had more body parts.  If I had left them all alone I could be dead now.  But I am not.  And the cancer is gone.

boobs

This Cowden’s Syndrome can really suck sometimes.

Other times I feel very blessed.

Plus – mine will stay perky longer than yours! 😉

 

Cowden’s Syndrome took…

Well, it took my thyroid, or at least any functioning part, long before I knew why.

It took my boobs in the prophylactic mastectomy that wasn’t so much prophylactic.

Cowden’s Syndrome took my uterus.  But I didn’t need it anyway.

It took my ovaries, but it gave me hot flashes in return.  Fair trade?

Cowden’s Syndrome took my checkbook, and used it for copays, and parking lots.

It took my calendar – and filled it with all sorts of places I didn’t want to be.

Cowden’s Syndrome took away my peace of mind, and filled it with worry.  (OK, MORE worry…)

It took my appetite.  If you don’t count Cheerios, ice cream, and salad.

It took away all my comfortable clothes, and has forced me to replace them in smaller sizes that appropriately cover my fake boobs, without losing track of them in shirts that are too large.

BUT,

it gave me the means and the motivation for education and early detection.

It gave me the motivation to step forward and say, “I don’t need THESE any more.”

Because I have Cowden’s Syndrome I will not suffer at the hands of breast or uterine cancer, and I will do my damndest to make sure my little girl doesn’t either.

Cowden’s Syndrome gave me the courage to fire clueless doctors, and educate the ones who care.

I encountered an acquaintance with breast cancer today.  She had on a beautiful wig, and is in the middle of chemotherapy.  I felt guilty as she asked me how I was feeling.  She knew of my ordeal last spring.  Survivor’s guilt I think.  It broke my heart to see her hurting, even though I feel she will be well again.

Cowden’s Syndrome SUCKS, in so many ways.  But it is part of us now, and like anything that becomes part of you, I believe you have to yank the good out of it.

Cowden’s Syndrome has taken a lot from me, from us in this house.  But the knowledge we have gained will give us second chances that some others may never have.

Cowden’s Syndrome took from my body – but in many ways it gave to my soul.

Perspective.

Whose pink shirt is that?

I guess that’s my pink shirt?

It was probably in 1998 when we attended our first Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure in Central Park.  Mom had spent 1997 undergoing 2 separate mastectomies, and enduring chemo.  Just to top it all off she began a run on 5 years of Tamoxifen

By September of 1998 she was back to her feisty self, raring to go – so we went.  We have gone almost every year since then, save for maybe 2003 when I gave birth to Meghan in August.

A few years ago a dear friend, a new survivor joined us.  So one very early Sunday a year, we pile into my Mom’s car and head to Central Park.  We look through the stands that are set up.  We “shop” for some free goodies, and we pay for some too.  Then we head back to the car and drop it all off so we are ready to walk among 25,000 or so survivors and supporters.

We push Meghan in her chair, as  the 5K would be way too much for her, but she won’t do without cheering Grandma on.  She makes Grandma a banner to hang on her shirt – usually a picture of the two of them.  It is a morning of (exhausting) celebration.

Our walking group

So it was Meghan.  It is always Meghan it seems, who pointed out to me about a week after my diagnosis of DCIS, that I needed a pink shirt for the race this year.  When I asked her why she said, “because you had breast cancer too.”

I thought about that for a few minutes.  It was early in the game so the ramifications of what I had been through had not yet fully sunken in.  I guess technically she was right.  I had the pathology report in my hand.  It clearly said DCIS.  The breast surgeon clearly called it cancer, and reminded me that a few more months would have put me in a “fight for my life.”

But I had been to those races for many years.  I had looked at the resolve in the faces of the survivors.  The bald heads of the women still in treatment, and I had read the signs and tributes to those who had fought and lost.  I had watched my own Mom endure chemo and years of tamoxifen.  Surely I couldn’t put myself in the same class with these ladies?

I suffer I guess with a bit of “survivors guilt.”  Some people might chuckle at the thought that my road has been easy, but of course everything is relative, and it is all about perspective.

I did commit to a prophylactic bilateral mastectomy to reduce my imminent cancer risk.  That in and of itself is a pretty big deal.  Finding out I already had cancer, rocked my world.  Knowing that I had already done everything possible to prevent any spread or recurrence, gave me some much needed peace of mind.  Angels, especially two I love (one here on earth, and one in heaven) named Meghan, had already kept me from being hurt by Breast Cancer.

Am I a survivor?  You bet your ass.  No genetic mutation, not PTEN, no Cowden’s Syndrome will take me, or my girl. I am blessed with the knowledge to screen, and the benefits of early detection.

Do I deserve to be in the same ranks of these breast cancer survivors?  I am not so sure.

But, I have this pretty pink shirt.  And these fake boobs.  Maybe that in and of itself makes it OK. 

No matter what I will consider it an honor to walk among some of the strongest women I will ever know.

Race for the Cure Logo

TWO bathing suits to pick from!!!!!

I never owned a 2 piece suit in my life… even though you can’t tell! 

Sorry about the strange head tilt… Never owned a suit that wasn’t primarily black either!

CAN I HAVE A WOOHOO?  THERE ARE BATHING SUITS AFTER A MASTECTOMY!

 Today after a few annoying things happened (like setting up Meghan’s appointment for Friday morning with the stupid surgeon, and fighting with a credit reporting agency over an old identity theft issue)  I got to try on my new bathing suits. 

Now, this (almost 39 year old) body, is in no condition to model, but I was so very excited I had to share. 

Since the mastectomy I have had a lot of work getting used to my new boobs.  They are smaller than the old ones, and that seems to be just as difficult to adjust to as if they had become bigger.  It just changes everything – the way everything fits and feels. 

I have also had to get used to no underwire – in anything.  That has been an understandable, but difficult transition. So, I have pretty much transformed my closet into tops that worked for me.  Lots of new T shirts, a couple of dress shirts that still need a tuck at the shoulder to tighten them up by the boobs.  But all in all – its going ok. 

When I first put on last years bathing suits I did cry a little.  I had to immediately put all but 1 (which was salvageable, but not great) up in the attic.  Not only did the boobs just not work in those suits, the stress of the last few months has taken off some pounds.  So they were a mess. I ordered 1 suit a few weeks ago.  My husband made me take it off because he said it made my boobs look fake.  (LOL… newsflash honey… )  But I understood. 

Got these in the mail today and got the seal of approval on both.  I have some nerve showing them here… but I want to know what you think. 

So come on tell me – black, pink, or try again? 

Have to have some fun, right?