Yesterday, whilst chasing a dog on the sidewalk, who attempts a sprint to the park every time I open the door, my “chicken cutlet” aka my bewb fell out of my shirt.
A construction worker with a bulbous belly, no shirt, tall black socks, construction boots and a cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth continued to walk towards the dog calling his name but since he was, well him, and because the dog doesn’t know him it made the dog run further away.
Finally I stood tall, held my chicken cutlet in my right hand, flailed it in the air, slapped it on the side of my thigh and yelled, “DUDDEEEEEE STOPPPP. HE DOESN’T KNOW YOUUUU.” He stopped, The neighbors laughed. And I got the dog.
I was originally scheduled for surgery to rebuild my right breast on June 24th . It would mark the end of my journey or at least bring me closer to the finish line. The surgery is extensive, removing skin, tissue and muscle from my back, stretching it forward to create a bewb pillowcase if you will and putting an implant inside. Radiation destroyed my skin and it’s too thin to re-expand so this procedure is a necessary evil.
The surgery will last 7 hours and for the following 8 weeks I will be required to sleep sitting up in a chair. With the kids being off for the summer, my dog filled schedule and the continued emotional adjustment to my “new” personal life the idea of cutting into my body and changing it once again was beginning to take its toll on my psyche.
Coming to the conclusion that I need to love my body a bit more before changing it again became an ever present impression. I need to prove to THIS body that it is good enough. The surgery marks a period to the end of a painful, traumatic, long, inspirational and successful sentence but I don’t want to fit it into the story in the middle of a chapter. So to speak.
The truth remains, I haven’t proven to my body that she is good enough. I’ve spent months hiding my lack of a breast. I’ve been ashamed by it. Constantly concealing its true form. Feeling uncomfortable in clothes, worried about other’s glances.
My body deserves to feel loved and accepted before I cut into it again. In the beginning I remember learning that some women opt out of reconstructive surgery. I never understood why. I thought it was because they “didn’t care” enough about their bodies to “improve” it. But maybe they opted out because they love themselves as they are and don’t feel the need to physically change it. Maybe it’s because they want to show their body the respect it deserves and accept it as is. Maybe it’s because their body is a warrior and not reconstructing it reminds them of all they have overcome.
I accept you body. I love you for all you have endured. And I promise, every time my jelly bewb replacement falls out and lands on the sidewalk I’ll pick it up and wave it around for all to witness.
