I Can Leave My Pants On
by Missy Hall
“Oh honey, you can put your pants back on. We just need everything from the waist up off.” The nurse was gentle and kind, and I made a mental note to plan all subsequent doctor’s appointments with no regard to my underpants, but to instead consider which jeans give me the least amount of muffin top. Because with breast cancer, you apparently get to leave your pants on. “I’m so sorry,” I murmured as I wriggled back into my faded Levi’s. “It’s my first day of cancer.”
.
The oncological surgeon introduced himself, telling me that he was so sorry to have to meet me under these circumstances and assured me the type of cancer I had was very common and quite treatable. “We will get you through this,” he promised. I hung on his every word, shaken to the core by my new role as cancer patient.
Then he asked me if I had back and/or shoulder pain. I absolutely did. “Oh my God! Do I have back and/or shoulder cancer too?”
He assured me that back and/or shoulder cancer is not a thing, but it would be possible for me to have a breast reduction after my partial mastectomy. Insurance covers it in cases like mine.
“Wait. Are you saying that I get a free boob job? Because of the cancer? Is this one of those ‘Make a Wish’ situations?”
Alas it was not; it was part of my overall treatment plan. They were planning on keeping me alive AND giving me manageable breasts! As a woman who sometimes rested her breasts on the dining room table just to give her back a break, the idea of smaller ta ta’s didn’t sound horrible. I had never been a fan of my large breasts. They made getting clothes that fit right hard…my bottom half and my top half had to shop in different stores. They required two sports bras just to take a walk. They knocked things off countertops. And they were rapidly migrating to my knees. So while I had never considered surgical intervention, having this opportunity to reduce them after my partial mastectomy was sounding like a happy thing.
I was downright giddy the day I met with the plastic surgeon. She was smart and compassionate; she was devoting her entire career to putting breast cancer patients back together. “I know this is a lot, and I’m so sorry you have to go through it,” she soothed. “But we get to be the happy part. We’re going to give you the breasts of a 22 year old.” Wondering how the breasts of a 22 year old were going to look with my 55 year old ass, I chirped, “Awesome! Is there something you can do for my butt, too?” Alas, there was not. But I was getting free boob job.
Later that night, I let it really sink in…my breasts with whom I’d had a love/hate relationship for decades were going to be really different. Up until this point, I hadn’t yet taken time to consider anything other than wanting to survive the cancer; I hadn’t thought about changes to my topography. I sat for a moment, feeling guilty for being a little enthusiastic about getting new breasts. It’s a strange thing, letting yourself think about something NOT cancer when you are just starting your cancer journey. Was I - the very woman who was only a short time ago on her knees praying to survive, not caring about hair, body parts, anything material- ALLOWED to toy with the idea of being happy about any aspect of this thing? It felt selfish and wrong. Shouldn’t I announce to the doctors, “You don’t have to make me feel comfortable or pretty. I’ll suffer anything if you just save my life…I’ll wear beige polyester. I’ll stop doing my hair. I’ll never have another pedicure or trip to Sephora. Just make the cancer go away.” Who was I to think that getting any sort of boost was reasonable, was something I should be shallow enough to focus on? But then again, don’t we all deserve to grasp at any shred of possible joy while experiencing one of life’s biggest traumas? I got the free boob job.
“We will be reattaching your nipples,” the surgeon explained. I turned green at the idea of my nipples needing to be UNattached in the first place. “After surgery,” she continued, “some women end up with super sensitive nipples, some note no real change in sensation, and some lose sensation altogether. I, alas, am the latter. I can’t feel my nipples AT ALL. If I were so inclined to decorate them, I could have them pierced or tattooed or chained together. Seriously. I feel NOTHING.
As I was passing a mirror one afternoon, I caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a spot of blood on my shirt right at nipple level. I suppose one of the downfalls of numb nipples is not noticing a bleeding abscess around the incision until it leaks through your shirt. I remembered my instructions to call the oncological plastic surgeon if anything seemed amiss, and this seemed amiss. I spoke with a lovely nurse who said I could come in or I could upload a picture onto my health portal so she and the doctor could have a look. While I am NOT generally one to send nudes out into the world, I AM someone who avoids having to leave the house at rush hour. So I draped my shirt over the unaffected boob, stood in the kitchen where the lighting was good, and took a quick shot of the area. I uploaded it to the portal, hit “send” and sat down. I’d just sent a picture of my breast out into cyberspace. And not a sexy boob…a bleeding Frankenstien boob. That I was holding up with my hand. A hand with a fresh lovely manicure and bright blue nail polish. And you know what? I didn’t care. This is where I was as a person. “Who AM I?!” I pondered as the phone rang. It was the nurse. “I can see you sent an image, but they are working on our internet and I can’t access it. How would you feel about just texting me the picture on my phone and I’ll delete it?” She gave me her number, and I repeated it back to her four times. I took a fresh picture in better light, stopping for a moment to appreciate how lovely my nails looked. As I was carefully typing in the nurse's cell number, my husband wandered up from his basement woodshop and I pounced on him immediately. “Honey, will you make sure the number I typed in here is the same as the one on this paper?” He checked and said, “Yup!” and I added the pic to the text and pressed send. “Thanks, babe. I had to send a picture of my nipple to the nurse and wanted to make sure I didn’t mess up her cell number.” He had questions.
“WHAT????!” What is happening?? Why are you sending a nipple pic to a nurse?”
“She asked me to because of the computer system. It’s a whole thing,” I explained, grabbing a wet paper towel to blot up more boob seepage.
“Missy!!!! That’s not a thing!!! You’ve been scammed! You just sent your boob pic to some guy in a basement somewhere!!”
“Um, YOU were some guy in a basement less than five minutes ago,” I pointed out for no apparent reason.
He went on, “It’s a scam, babe. No medical person would give you their personal cell phone number. What if you were a stalker or something?”
“If I were the stalker, why would I be the one SENDING my boob pic? I”d be the one LOOKING at my boob pic!”
“Not necessarily! You hear about those weirdos that send hundreds of pics of their junk to someone and try to get all up in their lives and the police can’t help and they have to go into hiding and start a new life!”
“I didn’t ASK her for her cell phone number! She OFFERED me her cell phone number! And it’s only because the picture didn’t show up in the medical portal!”
“Wait- how many places have you sent pictures of your boob to?!”
“Today? Just the two- the nurse and the medical portal thingy.”
“MISSY! Why are you sending them all these boob pics? Why don’t you just go to the office like everyone else?”
“Ok, now you’re just talking crazy. WHY should I go all the way to the office if they can look at the picture and tell me it’s normal without me having to leave the house?” I grabbed yet another wet paper towel to blot my oozing incision.
Our bickering was interrupted by the chirp of my cell phone. It was the nurse, who informed me that my breast should heal just fine …and she really liked my nails.
Now, a year into my survivorship, my husband and I laugh about that day. “I still can’t believe you texted your boob pics to that nurse!” He shakes his head. I’m surprised you didn’t take your pants off!’
“Don’t be ridiculous. With breast cancer, you get to leave your pants on.”