the not-so-pleasant part of reconstruction

I’m probably wrong, but I’ve always thought that the person who invented high heels must have surely been a man.

I believe the same can be said for tissue expanders.

It’s a brilliant concept, but one that conjures up demonic thoughts like, “How can we inflict sheer and unadulterated pain on women?”

I am nearing the end of the expansion process that was begun immediately following my mastectomy in February. Gradually, over the course of these many weeks, a nurse has injected alarming amounts of saline into a plastic bag that was installed under my chest wall during surgery. It expands with each and every “fill up” and stretches my skin as it goes. I was told that I would pretty much know when the expansion process would need to come to an end, because I would not be able to tolerate any more injections.

Well, I think I can safely say that I have reached that point.

Call me half Dolly Parton, partial Pamela Anderson Call me hurting. Especially when I breathe, which, as it turns out is something I do with surprising regularity.

Oh, and you should see me when I travel. Something about the pressurization of the plane and being at 35,000 feet… it is really scary to feel like you’re going to pop right there in the window seat of a Southwest 737 airliner. The peanuts would go flying, the flight attendants would come running – it would certainly cause a stir.

What I’ve learned is that you “expand” (read get tortured) to a point that is larger than where you’ll end up once the implant goes in. So, perhaps I won’t be Dolly or Pamela when it’s all said and done, but in the meantime….

(And now that I think about it, both of these women wear five-inch spiked heels.)

Ouch.