Can't blame them, though. I look normal. If you see me, you won't know that somebody had cut off my left breast and that it was stuffed with silicone. You also won't know that my right breast was lifted to go with the foob, and you won't know that I am minus one nipple (areola, as my plastic surgeon so sweetly called it. It's a bit like the day the oncologists asked me, "Do you still have a womb?" And I had said, "A what?" Never thought of myself as having a womb, never mind an areola. Sounds like a place in Italy.)
But what people don't know, is that life has changed irrevocably. I may look normal on the outside, but things are different. I see it on a daily basis. So far I have noticed the following:
- I prefer to shower. I used to love a bath, but now I stand in the shower and let the water wash over me. I also play with the water like a child, and love the life-affirming splash it makes on the tiles of the shower. It might, of course, have something to do with the rather large shower we started using shortly after the mastectomy, or it may be that it reminds me of the little things that were so important after the first op: just being able to feel water all over my body, instead of having bird baths.
- I used to be like the princess-and-the-pea, the one who could not sleep, because she felt a pea under the seven mattresses all through the night. Just a speck of something in the bed would have me going for hours trying to sort out the sheets. Now I get into bed and I ignore whatever is bothering me (or would have bothered me) and get on with business. Sleeping, of course. What did you think?
- I have turned into an extrovert. I don't quite know how this one works, because even though I am exhausted over weekends, I still want to spend time with my friends. Being with other people and talking to them and listening to them, has become one of the most important activities of my days. Last night we celebrated my husband's birthday. We were eight people all together at a local farmer's market, and we were the life and soul of the party! I know in my heart that the introverted me will always be there, but I don't quite know where she is.
- I am fairly fearless. This is actually quite scary, because I don't care what I say, as long as I don't hurt other people in the process. I don't know if this has to do with the chemo, or whether it is simply old age. I heard recently that researchers have discovered that one loses the ability to feel embarrassment as you get older. I don't know how true this is, because I am younger than some of my friends, but I definitely don't get as embarrassed as they do... It may, of course, simply be my personality.
- I am hot all the time. Now there is a simple explanation for this, of course: Zoladex and Tamoxifen. Hot flushes have become part of my life, and some days are worse than others. And then, when I say something about it, I will get advice about how to enhance my hormones. Sometimes I want to shake people. For goodness sake, how old do they think I am? And do they really think that it is normal for a 46 year old woman to be in menopause already? Honey, I want to say, the medication BLOCKS my hormones. If I want them back and not have hot flushes, I simply need to stop taking the medication. But then I am at risk of the cancer cells starting to grow again; so, even though I complain sometimes, I'd rather live with hot flushes than cancer. So there is no way that I am going to take extra medication (and it does not matter how natural it is) to bring back my hormones!
- I can't remember much. I used to forget gossip; now I forget everything. It's a usefull excuse, though!
Somebody said to me today, "Just don't rock the boat and don't be stressed." I laughed. Stress is a chemo needle. Stress is definitely not somebody being obnoxious or involved in a power struggle.
So yes, I am back to normal. I go to work, I laugh, I play.
But somewhere inside of me, I know that nothing will ever be normal again.
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