I miss my right breast. There, I said it. It’s not often that I allow myself that luxury. It’s been nearly twelve years since I had it. My late breast was warm and soft, lovely really, even if it was a shave smaller than its mate, and parting with it saddened me deeply.
I could say that I lost my breast, but that would imply that there was some remote possibility of getting it back. It’s more accurate to say that I removed it for medical reasons, and replaced it for cosmetic ones.
If I had known how much the laborious process of reconstruction would hurt, I would have taken a pass on the effort. When the plastic surgeon explained the process of stretching that would precede placement of the actual implant, it did not occur to me that post-surgical skin might rebel against this strain on its capacity.
However, once you’ve committed to the risk, you need to see it through to the reward, which is exactly what I did. I tolerated the pain for the eventual trophy—a cohesive silicone gel implant which was impervious to both gravity and heat, and maintained its unnatural lift and perpetually cool temperature throughout the rigorous tests of real life.
This is a silicone gel implant. I'm assuming that mine was similar. I didn’t hate my gummi-boob, but I didn’t love it either. It turns out that flawless replication of an original is nearly impossible. Had I been willing to alter my still-natural left breast, I might have been able to salvage some self-confidence, but I was unwilling to mess with my God-given A-cup masterpiece, which hampered the plastic surgeon’s best attempt at perfection.
No matter. I hiked up the left strap on all of my bras and made it work…until the biopsy of the line of lumps extending from my implant into my armpit came back positive for cancer seven years later. Goodbye, gummi-breast. Hello, Flat Stanley.
My surgeon held out hope that the deconstruction would be temporary and could be followed by a second reconstruction. He knew my plastic surgeon well and assured me that as they’d discussed my case, rebuilding remained a viable option.
Their renovation blueprints never made it off the shelf. Cutting out the cancer necessitated the removal of twelve square inches of skin on my chest, leaving barely enough tissue to cover my rib cage. Radiation treatment sucked the remaining elasticity out of my already-stretched-too-thin skin, sealing off the possibility for expansion.
Since then, I’ve lived a single-breasted life. Over the years I’ve purchased a couple of prosthetic slabs that can be tucked into the pocket of a mastectomy bra or swimsuit, but creating the illusion of symmetry involves such a complex system of levers and pulleys that it’s not usually worth my effort.
As my surgeon sliced away at the malignancies on my chest, he did manage to spare the rosy nub of my reconstructed nipple as a souvenir. The indelible ink of medical tattooing that gave it color has weathered into a neutral flesh tone, so it now looks more like an over-sized skin tag than an actual nipple. No matter.
It is the only souvenir I’ve got, this badge of honor that winks at me in the mirror when I get out of the shower. It provides a persistent visual reminder that I am more than my appearance.
I am a warrior. I’ve got the scars to prove it.