"Was that hard (to have both breasts removed)?"

I had my third saline fill this morning - 100 cc's on each side, bringing my total to 200 cc's bilaterally. I'll have one more fill of 50 cc on each next week, and then I'm done. So, because today was rather painful, I'm going to make this post quick.

Last week at the salon I was getting my hair trimmed, and my stylist and I somehow landed on the topic of breast cancer. I think we were talking about her sister getting breast implants, and somehow we got to me, and how I'll be getting implants for a completely different reason. The question she asked, which seems simple enough, after I explained to her my "whole" story in a nutshell, and how ultimately I decided to get another mastectomy was: "was that hard?" I said yes. But it got me thinking.
At my salon (somewhere I have been going to for years and feel very comfortable with the women (they know my name and give me hugs), I have shared some intimate details of my life, and had intimate details of others' lives shared with me. (Think of the Barber Shop mentality, except in a private room, and except we're not gossiping or talking about shopping.)

Two separate occasions with two separate women have ended with me talking about my breast cancer ... yes I'm so young, yes I found it myself, etc. etc. One of my aestheticians, also my age, has had thyroid cancer, and another has faced another traumatizing health event; the birth of her second child resulted in a total hysterectomy at the age of 27. So when I share about my breast cancer and these women share their tragedies, we are connecting on a whole new level. Before the sharing, she is just the woman waxing my eyebrows and I am just another customer. We see each other how we describe sometimes we feel others see us and judge us, whether completely in our heads or not, whether completely true or not: that we're young, vibrant, intelligent women who look put together and happy. But on the inside we suffer, or have suffered. And every day we work hard as hell to be the person others may judge us JUST to be: vibrant, young, happy. That they don't know just because we're young doesn't mean we haven't had our own tragedies, and just because we're young doesn't mean we have both breasts. We all feel that just because we're young we shouldn't be judged as naive. The world HAS touched us. But we're touching it back.

So after describing my whole "ordeal" about my breast cancer while planning my wedding, the second, third, fourth and fifth surgeries and my ultimate decision to undergo a left prophylactic mastectomy, my stylist asked me, in a very sensitive way: "was that hard?" - referring to losing both breasts by the age of 27. It's a simple question, and of course I normally just say yes, because it's obvious, it's HARD. But that particular question got me thinking. I'm not sure if anyone's really asked that question like THAT before. They just assume it's hard because why wouldn't it be? Everyone just assumes breast cancer, whether you're 26 or not, whether you're planning your wedding or not, is just HARD.

Yes, it was hard to be told I had breast cancer
It was hard to be told I had breast cancer WHILE I was planning my wedding
It was hard to be told I had breast cancer when I was 26
It was hard to have a mascteomy
It's hard to have surgery and deal with everything that comes with: recovery and pain just to name a few
It was hard to have lymph nodes removed under my armpit and re-learn how to open jars and car doors
It was hard to re-teach myself to lift weights, drive, carry a purse
It was hard to be in pain every second of every day
It was hard to have an expander under my chest wall, getting bigger each week, and pulling, pushing at my chest wall, muscles and skin, stretching me out
It was hard to have implant surgery
It was hard to be told I have Li Fraumeni Syndrome, and I should probably get the other breast removed
It was hard to live with the worry and anxiety of getting breast cancer again, getting a new breast cancer, or getting another primary cancer
It was hard when my right implant failed, causing my skin to open around it
It was hard to have that implant taken out two months before my wedding
It was hard to have only one breast at my wedding
It was hard to wear a prosthetic for six months, including during my honeymoon
It was hard to have another mastectomy, and then expanders AGAIN on both sides
It was hard to have the lat flap surgery: hard to see a large scar across my back, and hard to have numbness in my back.
It was hard to finally decide (after about a year and a half) to go on Zoloft, because if I can live my life with even a LITTLE less anxiety, I will be better off
It's hard now to get the expanders filled with saline every week, causing excruiating pain on the day, and days that follow after the fill, and then live with general discomfort the rest of the time
It will be hard to have another surgery where I'll get my implants. More recovery and more re-learning.

If you ask me about that part, yes, I'll tell you all of it was hard. But the decision to get the other breast removed? One of the easist I've ever made.

I know I can't speak for all breast cancer patients and survivors here, as all of our situations are different, and many women keep both their breasts following breast cancer. Having LFS puts me in a different category altogether. But from the moment I was told I had breast cancer in one breast, not only did I want that breast removed, I wanted the other one removed, too. Because when I was told this precious body part of mine was carrying a deadline tumor, it was no longer precious. It was foreign. It went from body part to object, and from precious to scary and urgent. And it went from mine to not mine.

So was it hard. Of course. Physically and emotionally. Hard is an understatement. Taxing, devestating. Yes, there are scars that are real and there are scars on my heart from having to remove both of my breasts by the age of 27. But in April 2011 they lost their meaning, their connection. I wanted my body to be safe. And they were a risk. That makes it hard. But it also makes it easy.

But the decision? Easy. Easy to remove something that's become foreign and scary. Hard that at one point they weren't foreign and scary; they were mine and precious. Hard that they changed roles. Scary that they changed forms. Something you once knew and loved, and related to your intimacy and sexuality and womanhood, something you would one day hope could feed a child -- turned. Turned into scary and urgent. Malicious. Yes, that's hard. That's very hard.

The decision? Easy. I've never looked back once and I don't believe I ever, ever, EVER will. I have chosen life and I have chosen to move forward. Scary and urgent are no longer a part of me. Instead I have safe, and safe is letting me get back to my life, the life I love so much.