For a therapist, you'd think I would be better about these things...do as I say, not as I do, I guess.
Here's the short of it: I had my real-fake boob put in on April 2nd, 2015. Little did I know that April Fools missed a day. The surgery went fine, I went home and I had few complications. I had some weird drainage and saw the Resident a few days after discharge. My plastic surgeon was traveling or some crazy shit. Anyway, the Res was eager to rule out an infection and wheeled me into the Breast Center Radiology Clinic. They drew a sample and inadvertantly gave me MRSA in the process. A week later, I was in the ER with a fever; two days later, I had emergency surgery to remove the implant I had fucking earned. That was mid-April. I still have a hole in my chest from where they took the implant...I'll wait for you to check the date I'm posting this (10.30.15). Yes, I've had a hole in my chest for 6 1/2 months.
I'm going in for another surgery at the end of November. This time, they'll take a piece of my back, coupled with some muscle and attempt to create some sort of Franken-boob. I'll be hospitalized for a few days but should be okay by Christmas. Depending on how this surgery goes, I may need to have 1-2 more surgeries before everything is complete.
It's been just over 2 years since I was diagnosed and started treatment (I had my port placed the end of Oct, 2013--chemo started shortly thereafter). People are constantly asking me why I'm going through with this additional surgery given everything that I and my family have been through. Some of you may even think I'm being vain for wanting to get this surgery.
I am not.
I am desperate to feel normal again. For the 10 days I had a boob that wasn't trying to kill me, I felt so much more like my old self. I was fine with losing my hair. Shit, I used my bald-head as a sensory intervention for dysregulated kids! But to have only one boob and a fucking hole in my body that won't heal and constantly hurts?! It's like a kick in the fucking face. Also--I'd like to point out that this was because of a stupid medical error--much like the one that caused my father to have his leg amputated when I was near Vaughn's age. Not exactly the best trans-generational pattern to be repeating.
I'm terrified, friends. I hate surgery. I'm scared that this won't work and that I may ultimately die. And I'm afraid that people will think that this is needless and vanity-fueled. But it isn't. I'm trying to reclaim who I was and determine who I will be.
