Shark BItes

The phyllodes tumor was really big.  Eight centimeters by the time they removed it.  Because it was so big and I was so small (in the mammary department anyhow) Dr. President felt sure he would not be able to close me up after removing the mass.  Not only that he was pretty sure in order to remove the tumor and ensure clean margins he would also have to remove part of my left pectoral muscle. He told me he would be using a surgical material called Integra to serve as a temporary skin of sorts until a skin graft from my leg could be performed during a later surgery. Integra is made of shark cartilage. (From the time we heard that forward we have referred to the scar left behind as the shark bite.)   When he told me all of this in his office on August 26 I was not so much concerned with these particulars regarding the surgery as I was about the malignant, spindle-celled neoplasm  that was growing rapidly in my chest.  

It’s heartbreaking to me how much emphasis is placed on the physical nature of  a woman’s body.  When I was young, like so many girls,  I really struggled with body image.  I compared myself to the shapely women in magazines and movies and always came up short.  I remember in junior high when many girls started to develop and I stayed miserably flat chested,  I asked my mom about it.  “When will my boobs grow?”  My mom was a little pear shaped elf.  “Five foot one and three quarters,” she would proudly rattle off when asked her height.  She had plenty of fluff in her bottom, hips and thighs but was small like a child through her shoulders and chest. She laughed and  said, “Oh honey, I’m still waiting for my chest to fill out.”  Fast forward to me as an adult.  At 48 I too was still waiting for my chest to fill out.  Like my mom, I’m small and  carry all my extra pounds in my behind, hips and thighs.  I would like to tell you I loved my body prior to the surgery, but I didn’t.  I beat myself up every day like so many woman.. I am not terribly unfit. In fact I go on workout binges every year.  I go to the gym pretty much every day of summer break but when  the school year takes shape, I find myself to be more and more busy, less and less motivated and make fewer and fewer trips there.  Still I’m not a sedentary person. I walk a lot, am not afraid of hard work and basically just have a lot of energy so I'm constantly moving. When I was in my thirties I contemplated getting breast augmentation.  I wasn’t too serious about it. It was expensive and as much as I wanted a bigger bust one day, I enjoyed the how thin my small chest and tiny torso made me look the next.  I bought hundreds of bras that afforded me enhanced bust lines.  I had padded bras,  push up bras, gel bras, water bras.  You name it, I had it.  Inevitably, I would wear these, “big boob bras” as Doug called them, for a week, maybe two and revert back to my regular Maidenform T Shirt bra. I know lots of women who’ve had breast augmentation. Some are happy they did it, some are not.  It seems to me those that were content in their life to begin with remained happy after surgery and those who thought a giant set of boobs was going to somehow make them a new person ended up sorely disappointed.

After that first surgery I woke up with my left breast covered in gauze and tape.  Dr. President was the first to change that dressing while Doug and possibly Kristie and Dee looked on.  For the next few days Doug, Kristie, Dee and Gloria Patterson would be my personal home health care team.  The wound needed to be packed twice a day and kept moist with a chlorine solution.  They would also encourage me to do my “exercises.”   Dr. President told me that I should raise my left arm into the air as often as I could.  He said I should enlist a door frame or a wall to be sure my arm was being raised straight above my head so that once healed I would have full range of motion. You guys, it hurt.  It was hard. I felt like I was pulling against a giant rubber band that had little or no give. Who would have ever thought lifting your arm, raising your hand so to speak, could be so difficult.  I spent a lot of time those first few days, fingers creeping up the door jamb in my bathroom, thinking how so very often we take our bodies for granted. On that Sunday morning, the day after surgery, when Dr. President changed the dressing.  I took a quick peek when he removed the bandages.  There, in the spot where my breast should have been was a sort of hole in my body, football shaped, red and moist. I quickly looked away and would not permit myself to cry.   I was alive.  How dare I be so vain.  I was done nursing, I would never have more children.    “This was so unimportant,” I told myself.  Still I felt like a freak.  In the weeks and months that followed a friend made mention to me that, “I was lucky because I had a small chest to begin with so it wasn’t as noticeable.” This  well meaning friend didn't mean to insinuate that the loss of a small breast is less painful or less emotionally difficult  than losing a large breast.  I’m absolutely certain it was not her intention, but I find it remarkable that even the best of us, in some small way buy into society’s emphasis on appearance; that my "luck" was somehow connected to my how I would look.

In the days that followed that first glance downward I avoided looking at my chest completely.  When Doug or any of my angels packed and bandaged my wound I deliberately turned my head so I wouldn’t even see the littlest bit of the shark bite.   Doug was wonderful throughout this time.  Each day he tenderly packed the wound and did his best to talk about how good things looked. “It’s healing really well,” he would remark as he taped me up.  Let’s be honest, there was certainly an element of loss for him but if it bothered him, he never let it show. Instead he remained cheerful and optimistic at every pass. After a few weeks I went into our room alone and removed all the bandages. Before I turned to face the mirror I bowed my head and said a little prayer.  “Please, help me to be strong.”  I turned to face the  mirror and looked at what was left of me. I cried briefly as I stared at the healing wound. Recently I read an address given by Stephanie Nielson who, as a young mom, survived a plane crash that left more than 80% of her body burned.  In it she said,  “I had been taught--and thoroughly believed in--my infinite worth as a daughter of God. I knew my value as a person transcended my looks, but that belief was being tested as I looked at my disfigured reflection in the mirror.”  I also believe in our eternal worth but like Stephanie at that moment it was hard for me to see past what was in front of me.  As I stood there wiping a few tears from my cheeks I had a powerful thought that chased away my self pity.  I thought,  “Here I am. “Here I am, living.”

In her address Stephanie talks about a meeting she had with Elder Holland.  He told her, "We look for Christ's scars because they are evidence of what He did for us. They'll be the first things He shows us when we see Him again. Your scars tell a story too. They might not make you feel attractive, but they are a witness of a miracle: that God blessed you to live and that you have accomplished very difficult things." 

 I guess that is what I can always remember.  God has abundantly blessed me in this time of sorrow.  These scars I have, while not attractive, do tell a story.  They tell my story.  The one to which I agreed.The one I understood before coming to this earth. The story that keeps producing more and more tiny miracles each and every day.