So, I survived the 6 months of chemotherapy. And honestly? I was eager for the next step. I’m that person who looks past where we are and immediately asks, okay but what’s next?
I had my consult with my breast surgeon, and after how well I did in chemo, I was thinking, “hell yeah, lumpectomy here I come.”
Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case.
When we looked at my new scans, the way the cancer broke apart—like tendrils everywhere within the breast—wasn’t some nice, clean, shrunken tumor situation. It was more like the cancer had spread into the tissue in multiple directions. Why I couldn’t grasp the full picture in the moment, I don’t even know.
But here’s what I do know: my breast surgeon didn’t tell me an outright no for the lumpectomy. She just said it wasn’t a good idea.
So when I pushed back, she clammed up. She couldn’t explain to me why I couldn’t have one. And that silence did damage. I went home and started dwelling. Second guessing her. Her abilities. Me reading meaning into every pause.
(I was trying to write my experience in order, but I’m out of time. I should’ve addressed my plastic surgeon’s consult first, and that’s going to be its own entry. I’ll tackle it next.)
As I mentioned in a previous entry, my breast surgeon works hand in hand with my plastic surgeon. Again—my plastic surgeon dictates the surgery layout, because he’s the one setting up the reconstruction later. The cuts aren’t just “cuts.” They’re future architecture.
I remember being in Venice, FL, working when I got a call from Dr. Irfan Rhemtula, my plastic surgeon. This was after I messaged my concern about the prescribed mastectomy versus lumpectomy.
He reviewed my scans right then, while I was still in the middle of regular life, and talked me through the process. He explained that lumpectomy wasn’t viable because of how the cancer permeated my breast. The best option for me was a mastectomy.
I asked if it could be nipple-sparing—like, could I keep my nipple? And he shot that down as kindly as he could.
So for the reconstruction path I elected, a full mastectomy was what it had to be.
Now, I didn’t want a mastectomy. Obviously I didn’t. But the fact that Dr. Rhemtulla could explain the why—clearly, calmly, with actual reasoning—made a huge difference. My breast surgeon shutting down made me feel like I was being pushed into something without the door being explained to me first.
So I started mentally preparing that my size D was going to be nothing.
Trust me, I’m not a huge fan of having bigger breasts. In fact, I’d been doing my best to minimize them when they started developing. Somewhere between the realization and surgery day, I told myself to channel teenage me—the one absolutely disgusted and disgruntled when they first showed up.
Great! I didn’t want boobs to begin with. But this was thirty plus years of having boobs and now I was used to them being around.
On the day of surgery, my mom drove me to the Helen Graham Center first—the breast center. I had to have a sentinel node needle placed.
Think of it like a little beacon inside your body, meant to help the doctor locate the lymph nodes that might be infected.
Mom and I sat in the waiting room on edge, waiting for them to call me back. Mom held my hand while I got in my head and cried quietly, because “how the hell did this become my life?”
They took me into the ultrasound room and prepped me. Fun fact: I’m ticklish. Extremely ticklish.
The radiologist was trying to be gentle, but she was tickling me—straight up. Thank God the nurse was on the other side of the table, because I started laughing and rolled toward the opposite of the gurney like I might fall off if she hadn’t been there.
The radiologist was apologizing nonstop. I’m trying to explain to her that I’m super ticklish and this can’t be helped. Well… it could’ve been helped if the radiologist had a firmer hand like the nurse. So I suffered through tickle torture because of needle placement. By the end, everyone was tickled—radiologist and two nurses included—because I couldn’t stop laughing, which caused them to not be able to stop laughing.
By the time I was prepped to transport across the parking lot to the main hospital for surgery, I was way more relaxed.
I got the typical pre-op stuff on the surgical floor: height, weight, urine screen, anesthesiologist coming in, IVs, nerve block/general anesthesia plan, my breast surgeon stopping in to talk.
And then—again, the part I couldn’t really wrap my head around—was that Dr. Rhemtulla had control over the surgery setup. He came in and marked my breast for the incision points. Those points weren’t just for the mastectomy. They were for reconstruction too.
After my breast surgeon completed her portion—removing the breast tissue and the 11 lymph nodes—Dr. Rhemtulla implanted a tissue expander to “hold the space” of what my new breast would become.
Surgery was unremarkable. Which honestly felt like a miracle after everything.
My mom and sister-in-law were there when I woke up and stayed with me in my room. I felt pretty good. The nerve block probably did the heavy lifting, but I wasn’t complaining.
I also felt extra lucky because my roommate’s surgery—same day, same floor—did not go smoothly. Her mom was talking really loudly with the doctors when they came in to discuss outcomes, and I heard the part about them nicking her ovary. Her surgery wasn’t even reproductive in nature, it was an organ that I was convinced wasn’t anywhere near your ovaries. Google to the rescue and there it was, on the exact opposite side of the organ being worked on. They made an error, and it cost her an ovary. She cried the entire time she was awake.
I felt bad—bad enough to stay up so she could sleep when she finally did. Apparently I’m a horrible snorer, which I hate admitting, but there it is and I felt like she really needed more sleep than I did at that point.
My overnight stay was fine. I read, watched videos on YouTube and played games on my phone. I was able to leave around eleven the next day.
And you’d think I would rest. But mom and I were out within the hour of getting me settled—heading to TJ Maxx. Hey, there is no therapy like shop therapy.
We didn’t stay out long, but honestly, I felt good. I didn’t want to be cooped up in the house. Plus, I had two weeks of not being able to drive, which was daunting enough on its own.
Overall, the mastectomy took me from a low of lows—the sadness of “losing my femininity”—to this weird place of, “eh… that was easy. let’s go shopping.”
Mom and my sister-in-law’s support on the day meant the world to me. Mom stayed a couple more days making sure I was comfortable, eating, okay. And yeah, even having an order to pick up at the mall—my friend Nina came and carted me—was such a small relief. A reminder I was still in the world, still doing things, still moving.
Chemo did its job. The mastectomy got done. Now I just have to heal enough to move on to radiation.
t have a lumpectomy. This caused me to dwell, to second guess her and her capabilities.
(I was trying to write my experience in order, but I am out of time. I should have addressed my plastic surgeon’s consult first and that requires its own entry and that will be tackled in the next entry.)
As I mentioned in a previous entry, my breast surgeon works hand in hand with my plastic surgeon. Again, the plastic surgeon dictates the surgery, as in, he/she decides where the cuts will be performed to set him/her up for their surgery later on. I remember distinctly being in Venice, FL working when I got a call from Dr. Irfan Rhemtula, my plastic surgeon. This was after I sent a message expressing my concern of the prescribed mastectomy versus the lumpectomy. He reviewed my scans right then and talked me through the process. He explained that the lumpectomy was not a viable surgery because of how the cancer permeated my breast. The best option for me was a mastectomy. I asked if it could be nipple sparing (where you are able to keep your nipple), and he shot that down as kindly as he could. For what I elected as my reconstruction path, a full mastectomy was in order.
Now, while I did not want the mastectomy, the fact that Dr. Rhemtulla could explain to me why it was necessary and the outcomes easily vs my breast surgeon shutting down, made a huge difference. So, I started to mentally prepare that my size D was going to be nothing. Trust me, I’m not a huge fan of having larger breasts. In fact, I did my best to minimize them when they developed. Somewhere between the realization that it was leaving and surgery, I told myself to channel the teenage me who was absolutely disgusted and disgruntled when they started developing.
On the day of surgery comes and my mom drove me to the Helen Graham Center to go to the breast center first. I had to have a sentinel node needle placed. Think of a little beacon placed inside of your body that helps the doctor be guided to the lymph nodes that were infected. Mom and I sat in the waiting room, on edge for them to call me back for this part of the procedure. Mom held my hand as I got in my head and cried quietly, because “how the hell did this become my life?” I was taken into the ultrasound room and prepped for this. Fun fact, I’m ticklish. Extremely ticklish, and God bless the radiologist for trying to be gentle, but she was tickling me. Thank God for the nurse flanking me on the other side of the table because I started laughing and rolled toward the opposite of the gurney and would have fallen off if she hadn’t been there. I needed this, it lightened the mood. The radiologist was apologizing profusely, and I’m trying to explain to her that I’m super ticklish and this can’t be helped. Well it could have been, the radiology nurse had a slightly firmer hand that didn’t make it feel like I was being tickle tortured. In the end, because I was so tickled, the radiologist and two nurses were tickled because I couldn’t stop laughing by this point. By the time they prepped me to transport across the parking lot to the main hospital for surgery, I was considerably more relaxed.
I was taken by shuttle to the main hospital and up to the surgical floor. I received the typical treatment at that point, height, weight, urine screen to make sure I wasn’t pregnant, anesthesiologist coming in for their pre-surgery interview and to set up the IVs for the nerve block and general anesthesia to be applied, and my breast surgeon coming in to talk. What I couldn’t truly wrap my head around was that Dr. Rhemtulla had control over the surgery. Meaning, he came in and marked my breast for the incision points as this set up my future reconstruction incision points as well. After my breast surgeon completed her portion of the breast tissue and the eleven lymph nodes removal, Dr. Rhemtulla implanted a tissue expander to basically “hold the space” of what would be my new breast.
Surgery was unremarkable. My mom and sister-in-law were there when I woke up and kept me company in my room. I felt pretty good. The nerve block was probably doing the heavy lifting there, but I wasn’t going to complain. I especially wasn’t going to complain when my surgery went like clockwork where my roommate’s surgery had a horrible outcome. Unfortunately for her, her mother was talking very loudly with the doctors that came in to discuss her outcomes. Her surgery sounded like it was supposed to be routine surgery, until they knicked her ovary. The surgery had nothing to do with her reproductive system and that error cost her an ovary. Needless-to-say, she cried the entire time she was awake. I felt bad, bad enough to stay awake all night so she could sleep when she finally did fall asleep because apparently, I am a horrible snorer and she needed the rest.
My overnight stay was just fine and I was able to leave around eleven the following day. You would think I would rest, but mom and I were out within the hour of getting me settled to go to TJ Maxx. Hey, there is no therapy like shop therapy. We didn’t stay out long, but honestly, I felt good. I didn’t want to be cooped up in the house. I had two weeks of not being able to drive ahead of me. That was daunting enough.
Overall, the mastectomy took me from a low of lows with the sadness of “losing my femineity” to “eh, that was easy, let’s go shopping.” Mom and sis-in-law’s support on the day meant the world to me. Mom hanging out for a couple of more days making sure I was comfortable and eating, was helpful. Heck I had an order to pick up at the mall that my friend Nina came to cart me to was also a pleasant relief of leaving the house. The chemo did it’s job, the mastectomy was done. Then I had to heal in order to move on to radiation.
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