Narwhals: or, The Case of the Missing Breast

“If you hadn’t just had surgery, this would be kinda hot,” said my husband, unclasping the binding stretched tight across my chest.

Three days had passed since a surgeon with nice hair had lopped off one of my breasts ― the one that, as breast cancer survivors like to say, had tried to kill me. I’d known almost since my diagnosis in spring that fighting cancer would mean losing the breast. From far off, though, “mastectomy” was only a word. Now, it was a blank space.

My intrepid spouse helped me out of the elasticized wrapping in which I’d been swathed for my trip home from the hospital. I peeled away the mound of gauze that lay beneath, and together we inspected the smile-shaped incision held together by surgical tape that draped across the startlingly flat left half of my chest.

No oozing, no strange colors, nothing alarming. At least, nothing more alarming than a piece of you that’s suddenly missing. Two thin, three-foot tubes snaking out from under my arm ended in rubber balls shaped like translucent hand grenades. Drains, the surgeon called them, made to collect fluid on my outside so it doesn’t accumulate on my inside.

You know those rolls of stretchy, fabric-ish stuff in the Band-Aid aisle? I don’t know what it’s called, but it works great for strapping fluid-filled hand grenades to your torso when you get undressed and no longer have pockets. An awkward but gloriously hot shower later, I wriggled back into my elastics, taking one more look at what had been something instead of nothing only a few days before.

What a sight I was ― misshapen, lopsided, taped together and sewn shut and topped off with a bald head sprouting peach fuzz.

Beside me, my spouse fumbled with the elastic bandaging, trying to ease it over my good shoulder without jostling my achy bits. I instinctively started to cover my incision with one hand. I didn’t want him to have to look at a mangled wife.

But that’s not what I saw on his face. In his eyes, I could plainly see, I was just me ― the person he’d pledged 30 years ago to love and care for, for better or for worse.

I giggled and struck a pose in the mirror. Yes, I lost something I valued. Yes, I am going to sometimes feel ugly, or deformed, or just sad about what I lost. But I’m also OK. Because, when it comes right down to it, the people who love me don’t give a rat’s patootie whether I have all my body parts. My good lookin’ husband still thinks I’ve got it. And I’m still me, imperfection and all.

******

Somewhere around one in eight women will be diagnosed with breast cancer in their lifetime. Not all of those will lose their hair or a breast, but some do. Yet, since I’ve started paying attention, I have seen almost no women with obvious signs they are undergoing cancer treatment.

I suspect that’s at least partly because women experiencing those appearance-changing effects feel like they have to hide their changed appearance.

For those who want to wear a wig or a prosthetic breast, I say, bully, more power to you.

But people shouldn’t have to disguise their differences and paper over their hurting parts.

When I’m at the grocery store, or at church, or waiting in a waiting room, I’m probably surrounded by people desperate to mask a deformity they see in themselves. Maybe their body doesn’t look like other people’s. Maybe their heart feels mangled. Maybe they can’t eat, or they eat too much, or they hate their family. Maybe they’re afraid and sad and don’t know why. Maybe they can’t forgive themselves for past actions or they can’t stop reaching for chemicals to feel OK. Maybe the hurts they experienced decades ago well up as guilt and self-loathing, no matter how much they try to get better.

It’s alarming to picture a world in which everyone lets their scary things show. But, if we convinced those around us that it’s safe to be different…mightn’t we discover how much we are all the same?

The acceptance and gentle encouragement of my husband and of friends who love me has helped me accept, and not fear, my recent physical change. It’s not as easy, perhaps, to battle past long-erected walls to show those in our circles that we value them ― not the version of them they feel they need to show the world, but the imperfect them, differences and all.

But that battle might be worth it, I think.

******

I’m not going to spend a lot of future blogging time talking about breast cancer. Other topics feel more urgent. But I’m happy to swap stories or share my experiences, if it’s helpful to you or someone you love. Email me at julie.j.riddle@gmail.com if you feel like chatting.

I will say this: A cancer diagnosis is scary. But the sooner you catch a problem, the greater your chances of overcoming it. I discovered I had cancer when I realized I was a year overdue for my annual mammogram, did a self-exam, and discovered a sizable lump. If I had gotten the mammogram when I was supposed to, my course of treatment might have been simpler. 

Mammograms, like most other cancer-catching tests, are easy. They can keep you alive. If you need help scheduling a test, email me and I’ll do my best to help. I’m no expert, but I’m happy to be a friend to walk by your side.

******

About the photo:

Right before surgery, I told my husband that some women who’ve had a single mastectomy call themselves unicorns. That didn’t feel right for me, I told him. (Everyone knows unicorns are the snobs of the animal kingdom.) Instead, I thought I’d call myself a narwhal.

Yesterday, with an impish sparkle in his eye, he brought me a box. I opened it to find a HUGE stuffed narwhal, pink, with a sparkly horn spiraling from her head.

Mega husband points for that one, honey.

(Narwhals are weird. And that's what makes them awesome. I can't help thinking...Maybe all of us with a difference we think we need to hide need to embrace our inner narwhal.)