One Tit McGillicutty

The nurse looks me up and down as I walk myself into check in. “Well you don’t look sick enough to be here,” She says with a smile. “Let me show you to your room and get you your uniform.” She escorts me in and comes back with a star patterned Johnny. “This is a kid’s size because you’re a peanut. And it has a star pattern because you’re too cute for anything else we offer,” she says with a wink. 

Last week I developed a fever of 102. I figured it was due to a germ ladden bouncy house extravaganza which I partook in 2 days after chemo (yolo) but when I awoke the following morning with a swollen, red and throbbing right breast I knew it was something else.

I had developed a serious infection behind my breast. The radiated skin wasn’t strong enough to support the surgery and my implant needed to be removed. I required hospitalization for a few days with IV antibiotic treatment. 

Sitting in my hospital bed I close my eyes and rub my fingers over my right breast. Well the space that was my right breast. The skin is caved inward. Gone isn’t the word. It’s backwards. I can feel the bone where the soft, comfy, malleable tissue should be. I’ve never felt this bone before. It’s shocking. Jarring. 

Tears start falling. They catch me by surprise. Big, huge, wet drops soaking my cheeks and pillow. I imagine myself like Alice after eating the cake that says, “Eat me,” subsequently growing 9 feet and after discovering that she can’t fit through the doorway she begins to cry. Her massive tears forming a giant pool at her feet.

Maybe I wasn’t ready to feel it. But I wanted to. I wanted to feel my once again new body. A chapter of constant introduction to my new self that I thought was complete.

“It’s not the end of the road,” one of my surgeons reassures me. It might not be the end but it feels like the edge of a cliff. “Skin stretches and in time we will re-expand the tissue and re-insert the implant.”

I love my scars. They’ve become my medals of honor. I’ve grown to love my body. I’ve learned how to reintroduce my psyche to my ever changing physical form over and over again but this isn’t a scar. This is a concave.

This week, December 3, 2021 is my final chemo treatment. It’s no coincidence that I’m ending my treatments three weeks before Christmas. One month before the new year. Starting fresh. New beginnings. The end of several chapters. 

It’s hard to view this hour as a time for celebration now that I have another hurdle to overcome but it is. This isn’t chemo. This isn’t fighting for my life. This is reconstruction. This is the fun stuff. 

My nurse reads my chart and her eyes fill up. She leaves the room and comes back 10 minutes later. 

She kneels down and fixes my pulsating leg wraps designed to prevent blood clots. Without looking up she says, “They call you Nelly?” “Yeah,” I say with a chuckle. “That was my best friend’s name,” She says as her voice cracks. “She passed away when she was 28 from breast cancer. When I saw your chart I knew that she’s here with us now. Watching over you.” She touches my knee with a warm caress. Her smile evident even with her mask on. “Thank you,” I reply. “That means so much.” She silently nods and walks out of my room.

This has never been about the destination. It has always been about the journey. Trust the process. Believe that everything happens for a reason. When life hands you lemons throw those mother fuckers back and go get a milkshake because that’s what you wanted in the first place. I’m a unicorn. A one titted McGillicuty. Who are you?