About a week ago, Lucy fell asleep with her head on my chest for the first time in nearly a year. I lay there in her little bed, holding her as the old lullabies played, and I cried. I cried with grief and relief and joy, all at the same time. Such a simple moment, but something I have missed so much.
From minutes after she was born, Lucy found the ultimate comfort nestled against my chest, falling asleep there, often sneaking her hand down my shirt to feel the soft warmth of my skin. And I found my way as mother with her at my breast, nursing her on demand for 20 precious months and cradling her against my heart day and night. Cancer ripped that comfort and closeness away from both of us, first when I had to wean her before starting chemotherapy and then again when I underwent a mastectomy to remove as much of my remaining and potentially treacherous breast tissue as possible.
That loss, the premature severance of a physical bond between mother and child, has been the hardest and most painful part of this entire experience. It is the part that makes me cry when I think back over the last year and half. It is the part that feels unfair. It is the part that–I’m ashamed to admit this–brings envy every time I see a pregnant or nursing mother. I am beyond (beyond!) grateful for the months I had with Lucy when she was an infant, and I love her even more now, if that’s possible. Feeling strong and healthy and happy enough to truly enjoy this present time with her is the biggest blessing.
But still. I grieve the loss. It was unexpected and traumatic and it sucked.
My mastectomy was in September of 2017, and the post-op healing process took several weeks. When I was finally able to hold Lucy again, she struggled to be comfortable. Where there had been softness, a natural pillow, there was now barely more than bone covered by a thin layer of skin. She would turn her head this way and that and squirm, never complaining, but not content. I would lie with her at night to help her fall asleep, and she would lie on top of me, wriggling around until she found a soft spot on my belly on which to rest her head. We got used to it, but it always felt a little awkward and sad.
Six weeks ago, I had reconstructive breast surgery. My husband posted a goofy photo to Facebook: me, drugged up, in surgical gown and cap, with a caption about celebration and #tatas. We may think of plastic surgery as a casual choice, even a vanity. Maybe we joke about enhancements and touchups. And while there was certainly a welcome element of that lightheartedness and humor going into my surgery, it was tempered by the gravity of why it was happening and the hope of what it would repair.
I was in the operating room for nearly 12 hours and in recovery for three additional days–by far the longest hospital stay I have ever had. I now have a slash across my abdomen that stretches from hip to hip. This is where the surgeons harvested skin, fat, and blood vessels with which to build new breasts. I have oval-shaped scars outlining my new “girls,” scars from tape blisters, scars from various drains, wires, and tubes. After surgery, I couldn’t stand up straight, raise my arms, or lift, push, or pull anything more than 10 pounds for weeks. Everything hurt.
You might be thinking, “All that for new boobs? Sheesh.”
I get that.
But now clothes fit the way they should, and I feel more confident in the way I present myself to the outside world. When I look in the mirror, I no longer see cancer. I see scars and strength and beauty. And Lucy once again has a place to rest her head. That is what I wanted most of all.
She’s getting so big. And that’s awesome because every day she grows is a day I get to experience and appreciate. But I also want to hold my baby close a little longer, before she’s all grown up and I’m out of chances.
And now I can.
pruneandpear 