Mastectomy scar

An alien has landed on my chest. It’s taken over the place where my breast once lived, and is lying there flat as a beached jelly fish with a red, thin scar through the middle. Or so it seems.

About fifteen minutes ago a nurse removed the bandage and paper stitches from my wound. Bit by bit the sticky papers were gently peeled off. After several minutes of wincing and looking away, she finally leaned back. ‘All clear, it’s done.’

I waited till the nurse left before looking. With Zsolt holding my hand and mom on standby with a big cup of tea – we all looked down together.

Overall this could be worse. One: I could still have the cancer in my body. Two: I could have Frankenstein stitches. Three: it could have been infected, or swollen, or just plain ugly.

Instead it is a clean wound that is healing. ‘Fabulous’ was the nurse’s word. ‘Tidy’ would be mine. Fabulous seems a bit of an overstatement. Shopping in Iceland would be fabulous, eating Pizza on the roof of Jasper Pizza Place would be fabulous, spending the day at that spa in Kanata – fabulous.

It looks like an alien breast . . . the same way movie aliens have no hair, my right breast has no nipple  and no curve either. It’s been ironed flat, though a small bit of soft tissue is left behind (probably in case I decide to have reconstruction). There’s a horizontal scar running across the right side of my chest, like a puppet’s mouth . . . any moment it’ll start talking.

First reactions – Grief. Loss. And my poor left breast looks quite alone, somehow it’s also become more strange to me. Neither side seems to belong, not like they once did. But time should maks things easier. Sooner than later I’ll look down and not think twice. Hmm, I like that rhyme: It will be nice to not think twice.

A cancer-free boob. That’s a first in regards to birthday presents.