‘Twas the Night Before My Double Mastectomy
That last week of August was pure chaos for me. It was the teachers’ first week of professional development, and I, a veteran special education teacher, had to be a presenter. I was preparing 8 to 12 weeks of lesson plans for ninth graders I had yet to meet, hoping whoever the substitute teacher was during my extended absence they would love my students as I did. When 3 pm came, and all of the other teachers rushed off to enjoy their last days of summer, I stayed after school for 2 to 3 hours daily. That Friday I was highly emotional; sweat dripped down my back as I decorated my classroom. The week had flown by and I felt like there wasn’t enough time to complete my to-do list. I was preparing for a surgery that would not only change my body but would change my life. It was scheduled for August 31, the first day of school for students. I would not be there. Instead, I’d be on an operating table being sliced and diced.
I felt like a pregnant mother nesting, readying my house for the week I would be in the hospital, preparing my toddler for mommy being “at the doctor’s” for days. I explained to him that he wouldn’t be able to climb on Mommy or that Mommy would not be able to pick him up when she came back. Friends and family had either organized shifts to help me with post-surgery care or meals when I came home. My hospital bag was packed, the house was spotless, everyone was asleep, and I had done more research on the procedure than I needed. It was August 30, 2015. The next day, I was fighting cancer back for all it had taken from me.
Prophylactic surgery to remove and reconstruct both breasts was expected to be 10-to-12-hours. I was nervous about not coming out of it alive and anxious about how I would react to what I had been calling “The Remix.” I playfully began referencing my impending surgery after I received the genetic testing results. At 36, I decided I would do everything in my power to avoid the same fate as my mother. I didn’t want to leave my two sons behind like she had to leave her two daughters when breast cancer took her life at just 23 years old. What if I hated my breasts (fake breasts) or Noobs (new boobs)? This was just one of three surgeries in the reconstruction process. What if I looked at this new pair without nipples and with giant scars, and I panicked? What if they were lopsided, or my scar was atrocious? I know the internet is supposedly not your friend in medicine. Still, I watched videos, looked up pictures, and read science articles, sometimes at 2 and 3 am, looking at other people’s scars and finding recovery tips. While it helped me prepare my home and wardrobe, it definitely put my anxiety at an all-time high. I couldn’t sleep at night. I almost had a panic attack thinking about going under and the type of pain I’d have to endure.
After months of anticipation, a second opinion, therapy to address the trauma of losing my mother and then my grandmother to ovarian cancer, Reiki sessions, and being placed on many prayer lists, I felt relaxed and prepared for the procedure. There was only one thing weighing heavily on my mind. I knew I had to finish my comprehensive exam for my doctoral degree. My coursework was complete, but I couldn’t continue with my dissertation until I passed. I had 28 days to complete it, whilst preparing for surgery. It was due September 8, with no exceptions, no excuses, even medical (believe me, I tried). It was more than 45 pages long, and I would have to complete it a week early if I wanted to succeed. With all of the medication I’d need, there was no way I could write coherently once I came out of surgery. I was expected to be in ICU for 24 hours and stay in the hospital for at least five days.
As everyone in my household slept, I began making edits to what I had been working on for the last three weeks. My eyes strained; I wasn’t sure if I was thinking clearly. My stomach panged with hunger but I had begun mandatory fasting, not even water. It was 1:00 am, and I was a little over thirty pages in when I had a toddler-like meltdown (feet stomping, tears and all). I thought I should give up; I should just wait until next semester and retake it, even if it meant more loan money. I wanted my peace of mind more; I needed my peace of mind. And then I heard this little voice, scratch that, a big voice yell … BULL SH*T! You are Brenda’s child; there’s no giving up! You busted your ass on this for a month, and now you wanna quit!? The voice sounded much like Tom Hanks in A League of Their Own. But instead of “There’s no crying in baseball,” I heard, “There’s no giving up. People are counting on you. You aren’t a hypocrite, are you? Follow Through.”
So, I did. I finished my paper at 3:34 a.m. I still didn’t hand it in. I closed my laptop, went into the bathroom, and looked at my old body for the last time. I felt my erect nipples again, realizing I’d never know what that would be like again. I took a selfie of my large, gravity-stricken breasts and my stomach, which, since my first son was born 18 years before, had looked like two lips frowning. I looked at my red, sleepy eyes, then shrugged my shoulders before taking what would be my last shower for 3 weeks. Screw it, I’ll sleep under anesthesia. I would let everything go and clear my mind for the surgery I had to report to at 5:45 a.m. I would submit my paper as soon as I got out of the shower. It was 4:00 a.m. I was signing off.
Part II of coming in October.
To learn more about the back story behind my decision:
- Read I Chose to Fight Cancer By Having My Ovaries Removed originally published in 2015 on For Harriet.
2. Read What I Didn’t Know Before I Had My Ovaries Removed right here on Medium.
Also, you think this story is important, please share. I am looking to publish me and family’s story so that we can save lives.
