I was awakened by the most horrific pain I have ever felt. Dylan retrieved the phone and I called my parents. As my mother arrived I was in so much pain I was dry heaving. We went to the hospital and a couple of hours later I was having emergency surgery. A cyst had adhered to my ovary and was causing the thing to twist. Yeah, hurt like a bitch. Modern medicine is amazing. I ended up with a tiny little scar in my belly button where they'd entered my abdomen to remove the evil, ovary twisting cyst. (I know I said no kidding but I just had a vision of an evil superhero who's super power is twisting girl guts. He's a bastard.)
I went home the next day and addressed the forced weaning that was a by-product of being heavily medicated on morphine pre-surgery and then Vicodin post. Dylan was almost two and I'd been thinking it was high time to get him completely off the boob anyway.
If someone had told me I'd breastfeed as long as I had I would have said, "No way. Two years with a kid suctioned to my tits? Uh uh, don't think so. Never say never people. My original itty, bitty B cups swelled to an obscene size and I could have nursed a whole village full of hungry babies from them. Impressive, I know.
Dylan adapted much easier than I did as I missed the specific and exclusive bond nursing gave us. Cuddling him as he wheezed his milky from a big boy sippy cup made him age in my mind's eye well beyond what I was ready for.
A week or so later as I was soaping up in the shower I felt something unusual in my right breast. A lump. Wait, a fucking lump. I called my doctor and went right in. She was confident the fucking lump was a side effect of such a quick weaning, a clogged milk duct, and attempted a needle aspiration. Fail. Try again. Fail. Try again. Fail. Next we moved to an ultrasound. Uh, not a clogged duct, a solid mass. Hey doc, couldn't we have done the ultrasound first and avoided you digging around in my breast with a freaking NEEDLE?
I was scheduled for surgery (again) the next morning. My breath was coming rapidly and I felt like I would vomit if I allowed my undisciplined mind go there. "What do you think it is?" I asked.
"I don't know and I cannot try to guess Danielle. We will see in the morning." My doctor replied as she peeled off her latex gloves.
I spent the rest of the day imagining the worst case scenarios and wondering how I would explain to my brown-eyed boy that even when my hair fell out from the chemo I was still going to be the same mommy. Just bald. After he went to sleep that night I wrote letters to him in my head. One for his sixteenth birthday, one about how to treat girls, one for graduation day, one for his wedding day, one for the day his first child was born.
I had cancer. I knew it. I was going to die. I knew it. I made promises to the powers that be that if I could be sparred I'd...well, that's between me and the maker. I didn't sleep much that night.
Upon waking from surgery the next morning my doctor told me she was fairly confident the tumor she removed was NOT cancer but we'd have to wait for the pathology report for confirmation. I exhaled.
"Just to be safe though I took the surrounding breast tissue as well." The doctor's thick glasses magnified her eyes to just this side of bug-like and distracted me from what she was trying to convey.
"Okay." I replied, still in a somewhat a groggy haze. Twenty four hours later as I carefully peeled away the surgical tape to reveal the incision I gasped in horror at what had become of my breast. It literally looked as though she'd lopped off the bottom half of my boob. I tried to summon up an attitude of gratitude, at least I didn't have cancer. She thinks. Then, I cried.
A few days later the phone rang with the pathology report on the other end of the line. NOT cancer. My hands shook with the revelation that I had been sparred. Thank you, thank you, thank you. The voice on the phone then became the same voice as the teacher from Charlie Brown.
"Wa-wa-wa-wa. Wa-wa-wa."
IT WAS NOT CANCER.
But... it could have been. And it could happen to any of us. Early detection is your best defense. Check your boobies girls and tell others too. Seriously cupcakes, feel 'em up, down and all around.
My second son was born three and a half years later and was nursed from the boob and a half for fifteen months.
This week me and my reconstructed boobies celebrate our second anniversary together. Happy birthday boobies. I love you both. When I am fifty you girls will only be fifteen. May we live a long and saline filled life together.
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