Following a reconstruction on my right breast, my body was bruised and uneven. But I’ve come to find the beauty and strength in it. Some women give their breasts names.
I’d never been that invested in mine. Small but reasonably pert, they were just there..
. until one wasn’t. In June last year, I found a hard lump in my right breast.
By July I had been diagnosed with stage one cancer and told I needed a mastectomy. I can honestly say the thought of losing this supposed symbol of my womanhood paled in comparison with all the other worries whirling about my head. The specialist assured me I would live another 30 years (my cancer was later upgraded to stage two when they found it had spread to my lymph nodes, but survival rates are still 90% in stage two patients for five years after diagnosis).
Despite this, I couldn’t help a cold dread clutching at my heart. I wasn’t ready to go yet - there was so much more I wanted to do. Most painful of all was the thought of leaving my children, aged 7, 10 and 13 at the time.
I held off telling them anything until I had a clearer idea of the prognosis. Over the summer, between juggling work and holidays, I waited for results and was presented with options. Knowing the cancer was growing bit by bit, I became quietly desperate to hurry things along.
Did I want a reconstruction? I thought about how my clothes would hang after surgery. My answer was an unequivocal yes; I didn’t fancy being flat on one side or having to wear prosthetic inserts in my bra. I opted for a breast made from my body tissue rather than implants, even though it was a longer, more complex operation leaving two scar sites rather than one.
I wanted my new breast to still be “me”. The operation - a flap reconstruction using skin, fat and muscle from my upper thighs - was scheduled for the end of September..
