Earlier this month, my temporary expanders, which were placed during my mastectomy in May and filled over time to my desired size, were replaced with my permanent implants. The expanders were sewn to my chest wall and as a result didn’t move, felt unnatural, and were generally uncomfortable. I was so excited to have them removed that I hadn’t thought much about the implants replacing them.
The current rhetoric is not going to simmer down on its own. There will have to be a tipping point, and I don’t want to think of how many more lives will be lost in the fall or leading up to it.
Yet, as all this happens in the background, we continue to live our lives. That dissonance alone is enough to spike my anxiety.
It is a widely known fact that I crave control in just about every aspect of my life. Though, life has LOVED reminding me how little control I actually possess. My workaround has been to focus on what I know I can control. To flip every switch and lever available to me in hopes that even if it all goes to shit, I can at least look back and say I did everything I could.
Even though *I* am not returning to school, there is still something about this time of year that feels more new year-ish than New Year’s. And this back-to-school season, I’m feeling it more than most: in just two months The Luckiest will be in your hands and next week I will undergo what I hope is my final breast reconstruction surgery. I am saying ta ta to my uncomfortable and temporary tatas (ie expanders) and hello to my more permanent ones (implants).
Not having a memory-filled home base never really bothered me before. I’ve enjoyed living all over, experiencing and getting to know different parts of the country. It’s exciting, new, and different, all of which I have a history of gravitating toward. But lately I’ve been craving something simpler, something known: a touchstone.
This week I had my final appointment with my plastic surgeon before my implant surgery. Talk about a sentence I didn’t think I would be writing a year ago. But it’s been nearly eight months since that concerning mammogram/ultrasound, and now I talk about my boobs with the same reckless abandon as I do what I had for dinner last night.
This week Anessa prayed to Santa Claus and I mulled over the arrival of AI griefbots - how was your week?
The dissonance I’m currently feeling between my warm and sticky summer, filled with popsicles and baseball, versus the suffering I’m witnessing outside my bubble is unsettling.
I’ll be the first to admit that it’s been a while since I’ve felt particularly patriotic. The passing of the administration’ sweeping domestic policy bill yesterday was like pouring acid in a gaping wound. All of which tends to make for an awkward Fourth of July.
Lately I’ve been feeling unmotivated. Questioning if a depressive episode is creeping in. I’ve settled on the term malaise - mostly because I like the way it sounds. Turns out it is also an accurate usage of the word: a feeling of being unwell, fatigued, or generally not yourself.
This week was my daughter’s end of kindergarten ceremony at school. It began with the children filing into the school auditorium to Taylor Swift’s “Never Grow Up” playing over the loudspeaker, which could only just be heard over the crying and sniffling parents. And then we were called to rise, to start the event the same way our children do every morning, by reciting the pledge of allegiance.
As of yesterday, I am officially two weeks post-op. The god-awful drains sucking the gross body juice out of the remnants of my chest have finally been removed. Which means I’m no longer wearing specialized bras with hooks, or shirts with internal pockets to hold the collection bags which my mom then has to empty 2-3 times a day. Oh, and I no longer feel like a compromised cancer patient.
