Indiana Jones and the Sacred Falsie

I am all lopsided after my mastectomy.  My clothes don't really look right, and I'm self-conscious about it.  A prosthesis, or "falsie" was in order.   My surgeon happened to have brochures for a couple of "mastectomy boutiques" and I took them home, happy to be able to do something constructive.  There were three places where I could begin. I like to make these sort of trips into adventures, just to make them less boring and dull.  I imagined Indiana Jones and I, on the hunt for an artifact of some sort. The Sacred Falsie, I secretly named it.

Just like Dr. Jones pored over ancient texts and maps before he set off on his trips, I actually read the brochures.  I specifically looked at the hours of operation.  I drove to the closest 'boutique' on the list, soaring music accompanying me on the car radio. I briefly wondered if Indiana Jones would mind riding shotgun.  I was the only one who could drive the car, however; him being imaginary and all. 

On the brochure this was the "Northeast Location" of a company that was on the other side of town.  When I finally located this particular address, the door had a tiny sign that indicated "By Appointment Only". Dr. Jones could not recall if he had ever been thwarted by the Nazis in such a manner; he decided to search his notes.  In the brochure the only mention of appointments was indicated to be "after hours"; the place was supposed to be open 9-5 Monday-Friday.  Annoyed, I looked up the address of the next business, put my car in gear and got back on the road.  Even Indiana Jones did not find his treasure on the first try.

I arrived at the next business at exactly 12:40, only to read that the place closed for lunch from 12:30 to 1:30.  Beneath that was a notation that "Friday's" were appointment only.  I reread the company's brochure, while Indiana Jones repeatedly referred to his notes.  This particular business was supposed to be open from 8-5 Monday through Thursday.  No mention of lunch hour.  Professor Indiana Jones would have used his whip for such an egregious error on the front door; I offered to let him borrow my red pen instead.  We were both concerned.  If a person running a medical business did not know the difference between a possessive and a plural, what sort of prosthetic might I end up with?  We shuddered at the thought.

My husband, the keeper of many sacred vinyl artifacts, advised me via text to call the third place, located on the other side of Texas, before I traveled much further.  I did just that.  While verifying that they were open, I mentioned that I had first attempted their "Northeast Location", only to find it closed.

"Oh, that location has been closed for some time," the receptionist's tone was condescending.  Indiana Jones suspected that Nazi shenanigans were afoot.  I took a deep breath and calmly indicated that it did not indicate on the brochure that the location was closed.

"Well, we give new brochures to the doctors all the time, " the receptionist said.  "It's not our fault that they don't give out the correct ones."

My eyebrows shot clear up into my hairline.  I visualized Indiana punching a bad guy right in the face, said thank you, and hung up the phone.

At the location of the Sacred Falsie, I found myself in what appeared to be a doctor's waiting room, with a small window on the other side where patients might sign in or hand over their insurance cards.  Indiana Jones likely would have leapt through the glass in the tiny window and helped himself. I merely waited. Several minutes passed before someone actually appeared behind the window and slid it open.

"You really should have made an appointment," the receptionist chastised me as soon as she opened the window.

Indiana Jones and I had had quite enough.  If I'm told that I have to make an appointment, I will make an appointment. I'm perfectly okay with making an appointment.  If I know that I am supposed to make an appointment.  It wasn't on the brochure.  It wasn't online. It was not inscribed on the walls of any ancient tombs.  How I might have been made aware of the need for an appointment?

I asked the receptionist that very question.  Indiana Jones asked me if I wanted to borrow his bullwhip.

"You need to make an appointment because it's going to take at least 30 minutes," the receptionist was attempting to deflect me by not answering my question.  Indiana put his bullwhip away and handed me his gun before gingerly taking two steps back.  But I was determined to get the prize. I wasn't leaving without the Sacred Falsie, and that was that.

I did not punch the receptionist in the face, as recommended by Dr. Jones.  I did not drag her out the little window and throw her underneath the nearest truck, which was his next suggestion.  I did not shoot her.  Instead, I sat and waited for twenty minutes while they ran all my insurance information through to make sure that they would get paid.   While Indiana Jones waited discreetly out in the hallway,  I was fitted for a piece of foam that will fit inside a bra so my clothes will fit better and I can pass for what passes for normal. 

On my way out I was again chastised because my doctor did not complete the prescription correctly.  Insurance won't pay if the prescription isn't correct, I was informed, as if I were trying to cheat them out of a piece of foam and two bras.  I simply smiled; I had claimed the Sacred Falsie, and need never return.   Indiana Jones and I drove off, soaring music blaring, to hunt for treasures on another day.

The Phantom Boob

When I was in school, I read all about Phantom Limbs for a psychology class or two.  People who have had limbs or appendages amputated still feel as those those body parts are still attached to them somehow.  There's a neurological basis to the experience. Even if the mind clearly understands that the limb is no longer there, even if the person can simply look down and see that the limb is gone, they still report feeling the same sensations as though the appendage is still there.  I remember thinking, how interesting, that the mind worked in such ways.  And then I turned the page and read the next chapter of my textbook.

What can I say?  I was in college.  That's what college kids do.  Everything in college is interesting, but only on the surface, like watching the circles flowing away from the rock that you throw into a pond.  You're exposed to everything, and it's only later, when you start to apply what you've learned, that things start to make sense, and you see below the surfaces.

When I first learned that I was going to have to have a mastectomy, I cried.  I wasn't crying about losing my breast.  I was crying about having to have yet another surgery.   I was, and still am, ambivalent about my boobs.  Always have been.  I think most women are.  Some days I liked them, such as when they filled out an outfit just so and made me look awesome. Some days they made me feel downright sexy.  And my breasts were a very big help when I had my son, boosting his immunity and helping him grow. 

But most days my boobs just annoyed me.  Bras didn't fit right some days, so I was constantly adjusting my "accoutrements".   The fact that my nipples sometimes ended up in opposite directions occasionally made me look as though Mad Eye Moody from Harry Potter was on my chest.  The ache in the middle of my back from the weight of D cups.  The minor aches and pains my breasts experienced once or twice each month weren't great, either. Most days my opinion of my breasts was a simple "meh".

My left breast is gone now.  I look down at my chest, and it's not there.  Instead there is a neat row of stitches, with strips of tape covering them.  There's some flap of skin, that will be used for breast reconstruction at some point, and below that is the drain tube, where lymphatic fluid and blood is still draining.  But that breast is gone, severed from my body and sliced into microscopic pieces for examination, along with five of my lymph nodes.  Intellectually, I know that.  And yet, I feel as though it is there.

I have a phantom boob.

If I am not looking directly at it, I feel the same as I did before the surgery.  When I cross my arms under my boob(s), I have the sensation that there are still two there, not one.   I still have that ache between my shoulder blades at the end of the day, even though the weight has been halved.   I still have the hormonally random aches and pains.  And bras still don't fit right, and they won't, until I get a prosthesis or a box of tissue stuffed in there.  However, my boob is not there, no matter what my brain thinks.  My left breast had cancer in it, and it had to go.

I didn't expect to have a phantom boob. It's ridiculous, really. I could completely understand the body missing a hand, or a foot, or an eye.  Those are extremely useful appendages, completing a multitude of tasks during our lifetime. It is completely logical that the brain would want those particular appendages.  But missing a breast?  When you think about it, a boob is not really useful for much beyond feeding babies, or those weird fetishes that you read about on certain parts of the internet.  *cough*  Why would my brain have fond feelings for a breast?

A phantom boob?

Maybe I should start looking for a curandero to exorcise this particular ghost.  Perhaps they might perform a ceremony involving protection from the evil eye, chanting and rolling an egg over me.  Maybe there'd be sage burning. I don't know how these sorts of things work.  I am not sure how I would even bring up the topic.  Perhaps I should hold a seance'?  Who would I invite to the table to hold hands and call up the spirit of my lost boob?  I'd probably get laughed out of the room.

Nobody takes phantom boobs seriously these days.

My Life Was A Telenovela

The last couple of days have involved fun, like watching my son execute a textbook right footed pass across a crowded soccer field as his team won three tournament games on Sunday.  It was watching The Walking Dead with my husband and cheering as Daryl beat death yet again.

The last couple of days have also involved drama.

Lots of uncontollable sobbing prior to my surgery, because dammit, I was terrified.

Sudden projectile vomiting in the post-op, that thankfully, was only water, not the apple juice I usually get.

Kind nurses who helped clean me up after my projectile vomit fest.

Post-operative bleeding that was going to mean yet another surgery last night.

Friends who, while far away, talked to me via email and text, and got me through my BIG FREAK OUT over the idea of bleeding and surgery.

The sudden cessation of bleeding following an impromptu prayer petition from a complete stranger.

The friends who visited and distracted me from the fact that my back itches like crazy from the pressure bandages.

A passive aggressive person so self-centered and attention seeking that she texted people many times about her colon and other unmentionable parts and how someone needed to drop everything to take care of HER.

And a family that, even if we don't see each other every day, comes together when it really counts. I don't know what I would do without them.

I'm supposed to be discharged tomorrow, just in time for a day of Thanksgiving.

But I'm already thankful for so many things.

Except for the passive aggressive crap. That gets on my nerves.