Prophylactic Bi-Lateral Mastectomy: Not New and Not Just for Celebrities!
"Susan Armstrong...
is there a Susan Armstrong here?" Oh God! That was me.
Susan Armstrong.
It was my turn.
I looked up from the blue paper slippers that enveloped my feet and looked at my husband.
"That's you" he whispered quietly.
"You can still change your mind" I shook my head "no", and then silently, without any crying or fanfare, I got up and started on the longest walk I have ever taken.
The truth is I was anything but o.
k.
I was about to walk into an operating room to have a prophylactic bi-lateral mastectomy.
My breasts would be gone forever; no nipples and no feeling, there would be nothing left.
Oh sure, they were going to replace them, but with some foreign entities that would have to be blown up like balloons over a few weeks.
And the worst part of this whole thing? I was doing this voluntarily.
Yes, this is the same surgery Angelina Jolie just had.
It's not new, and it's not just for celebrities.
As I shuffled behind the nurse down the long, white, barren hallway toward the operating room, wondering if I was doing the right thing, the events from the past few months played over and over in my mind.
First, there was the news from my sister: she had thyroid cancer.
She was 39.
Then a week later, the call from my mother...
she had breast cancer.
Not that the news from my mother was a surprise.
It wasn't.
Cancer runs in our family, and among the women, it is breast cancer.
I had known since I had a benign tumor removed at age 20 that I would die of breast cancer.
Not that I had any proof back then, just that knowing sense that this would be my fate...
and the fact that cancer ran in my family.
Everyone had, or had died from cancer.
And now...
here it was.
I was staring it in the face.
It was during the months that my sister and mother were both undergoing their cancer surgery that I decided to start the process of genetic testing.
I knew it was available, and I intuitively knew this was my fate so I might as well have medical proof.
My rationale was at least I would know what I was dealing with.
So I started the process by finding out my options.
The Universe however, had a different idea.
One Saturday morning I arrived home from my latest week long business trip to kiss my husband and catch up on the home front when he delivered the news that my Doctor's office had called and wanted to speak with me about my test results.
When the day finally came for my appointment, the Doctor delivered the news: "I'm so sorry Sue, the tests showed there is something there and we would like you to have it removed.
We're not sure what it is, but just to be on the safe side...
" I felt like I was staring my mortality in the face and this was only the beginning, of that, I was sure.
Even if it didn't turn out to be anything, how many times would this happen in the future because of "my family history" and "you can never be too careful".
The Doctor had called them "suspect cells".
I thought back to the years of mammograms, each time, having two sets of pictures taken, each time having to wait for an ultra-sound just to be sure, and each time having to wait to see a radiologist tell me "we really can't tell, keep doing what you're doing and we'll see you next year unless something changes in the meantime".
I had fibro-cystic breasts which meant something always changed "in the meantime" and made it very hard for them to read any of the tests they did.
Something I had suffered with since I had the lump removed when I was 20.
I always had lumps; eight to ten at any given time.
If I had gone to the hospital every time I felt a lump in my breast I would have lived in the emergency room.
Instead, I only went when I felt one change, or when a new one appeared and stayed for any length of time.
And each time it was the same thing...
"I'm sorry, we really can't tell if it's cancerous or not".
So there I stood, contemplating my death from breast cancer when it suddenly occurred to me: I have never been a very good victim.
I am a much better warrior so I would not sit back and wait for breast cancer to come and get me - I was going to get it first! I knew from my counseling session with the genetic testing that there were options.
They could remove my ovaries as a preventative measure since ovarian cancer and breast cancer sometimes go hand in hand.
Or they could remove my breast tissue and lower the risk of cancer to less than 2%.
That was it.
That's what I would do.
Son-of-a-bitch cancer was not coming to get me! I would get it first! And that's how I ended up here, shuffling behind a nurse, walking the longest walk of my life, on my way to an operating room to have my breasts removed.
I wondered if I was crazy.
But I knew I wasn't.
And I knew this was the right thing to do.
By all accounts the surgery went well.
Unfortunately I was not quite as prepared for it as I thought I was.
Why I thought this would be a piece of cake I'm not sure, because it turned out to be anything but.
The day after the surgery I couldn't move from the pain.
I had tubes coming out of me with black stuff leaking into a ball at the end of each tube.
Not pleasant.
Thankfully, I was well padded and wrapped in elastic bandages so I couldn't see what was beneath - until they made me get in the shower on day two.
I can't describe the horror of seeing my sunken chest, sliced from underarm to underarm, tubes sticking out of me, distended belly, and then there was the pain.
Have I mentioned that yet? I couldn't stand up straight, I couldn't lift my arms to shower, and there was no one there to help me except my best friend who helped me wash and get back into bed.
The pain pills were good, they got me through the hard parts, but weeks later when there was still black goo seeping out of one side of me, a trip to the Doctor was in order.
And so started my many months of complications.
I had every complication they warn you about, and some they had never seen before.
Finally, 5 months later, I made the agonizing decision to have the implant on my left side removed.
My body just did not like it and seemed to be rejecting it.
So there I was, for six months, lopsided.
Implant in one side, sock stuffing the other.
On the bright side, I knew, even through all these complications I had done the right thing.
After the surgery I looked years younger.
It turns out the constant thought of dying ages one considerably.
A year later, I had an implant put back in.
This time, the Doctor used a different method.
This time, my body didn't reject it.
This time would be the last surgery.
It's now 12 years later, I am used to my "new" breasts, tattooed nipples and all.
I have no feeling where the old breast tissue used to be.
I have large scars that go across each breast, one on the right side and 3 on the left.
And I know that one day, my saline implants will break and I will yet again, have to have another surgery.
I'll never forget that long walk down that hallway to the operating room.
I certainly don't relish the thought of ever doing that again.
But I don't regret it one bit.
This surgery is not for everyone, but it is an option.
If you are considering this route as a way to prevent breast cancer, please do your research first.
Different doctors have different approaches to how they reconstruct the breast.
Ask for pictures, and ask to speak to previous patients who have had the same surgery.
As many women as I have spoken to who have had this surgery, it seems that we all had different experiences.
And considering some of the stories I've heard, I might just be one of the lucky ones!
is there a Susan Armstrong here?" Oh God! That was me.
Susan Armstrong.
It was my turn.
I looked up from the blue paper slippers that enveloped my feet and looked at my husband.
"That's you" he whispered quietly.
"You can still change your mind" I shook my head "no", and then silently, without any crying or fanfare, I got up and started on the longest walk I have ever taken.
The truth is I was anything but o.
k.
I was about to walk into an operating room to have a prophylactic bi-lateral mastectomy.
My breasts would be gone forever; no nipples and no feeling, there would be nothing left.
Oh sure, they were going to replace them, but with some foreign entities that would have to be blown up like balloons over a few weeks.
And the worst part of this whole thing? I was doing this voluntarily.
Yes, this is the same surgery Angelina Jolie just had.
It's not new, and it's not just for celebrities.
As I shuffled behind the nurse down the long, white, barren hallway toward the operating room, wondering if I was doing the right thing, the events from the past few months played over and over in my mind.
First, there was the news from my sister: she had thyroid cancer.
She was 39.
Then a week later, the call from my mother...
she had breast cancer.
Not that the news from my mother was a surprise.
It wasn't.
Cancer runs in our family, and among the women, it is breast cancer.
I had known since I had a benign tumor removed at age 20 that I would die of breast cancer.
Not that I had any proof back then, just that knowing sense that this would be my fate...
and the fact that cancer ran in my family.
Everyone had, or had died from cancer.
And now...
here it was.
I was staring it in the face.
It was during the months that my sister and mother were both undergoing their cancer surgery that I decided to start the process of genetic testing.
I knew it was available, and I intuitively knew this was my fate so I might as well have medical proof.
My rationale was at least I would know what I was dealing with.
So I started the process by finding out my options.
The Universe however, had a different idea.
One Saturday morning I arrived home from my latest week long business trip to kiss my husband and catch up on the home front when he delivered the news that my Doctor's office had called and wanted to speak with me about my test results.
When the day finally came for my appointment, the Doctor delivered the news: "I'm so sorry Sue, the tests showed there is something there and we would like you to have it removed.
We're not sure what it is, but just to be on the safe side...
" I felt like I was staring my mortality in the face and this was only the beginning, of that, I was sure.
Even if it didn't turn out to be anything, how many times would this happen in the future because of "my family history" and "you can never be too careful".
The Doctor had called them "suspect cells".
I thought back to the years of mammograms, each time, having two sets of pictures taken, each time having to wait for an ultra-sound just to be sure, and each time having to wait to see a radiologist tell me "we really can't tell, keep doing what you're doing and we'll see you next year unless something changes in the meantime".
I had fibro-cystic breasts which meant something always changed "in the meantime" and made it very hard for them to read any of the tests they did.
Something I had suffered with since I had the lump removed when I was 20.
I always had lumps; eight to ten at any given time.
If I had gone to the hospital every time I felt a lump in my breast I would have lived in the emergency room.
Instead, I only went when I felt one change, or when a new one appeared and stayed for any length of time.
And each time it was the same thing...
"I'm sorry, we really can't tell if it's cancerous or not".
So there I stood, contemplating my death from breast cancer when it suddenly occurred to me: I have never been a very good victim.
I am a much better warrior so I would not sit back and wait for breast cancer to come and get me - I was going to get it first! I knew from my counseling session with the genetic testing that there were options.
They could remove my ovaries as a preventative measure since ovarian cancer and breast cancer sometimes go hand in hand.
Or they could remove my breast tissue and lower the risk of cancer to less than 2%.
That was it.
That's what I would do.
Son-of-a-bitch cancer was not coming to get me! I would get it first! And that's how I ended up here, shuffling behind a nurse, walking the longest walk of my life, on my way to an operating room to have my breasts removed.
I wondered if I was crazy.
But I knew I wasn't.
And I knew this was the right thing to do.
By all accounts the surgery went well.
Unfortunately I was not quite as prepared for it as I thought I was.
Why I thought this would be a piece of cake I'm not sure, because it turned out to be anything but.
The day after the surgery I couldn't move from the pain.
I had tubes coming out of me with black stuff leaking into a ball at the end of each tube.
Not pleasant.
Thankfully, I was well padded and wrapped in elastic bandages so I couldn't see what was beneath - until they made me get in the shower on day two.
I can't describe the horror of seeing my sunken chest, sliced from underarm to underarm, tubes sticking out of me, distended belly, and then there was the pain.
Have I mentioned that yet? I couldn't stand up straight, I couldn't lift my arms to shower, and there was no one there to help me except my best friend who helped me wash and get back into bed.
The pain pills were good, they got me through the hard parts, but weeks later when there was still black goo seeping out of one side of me, a trip to the Doctor was in order.
And so started my many months of complications.
I had every complication they warn you about, and some they had never seen before.
Finally, 5 months later, I made the agonizing decision to have the implant on my left side removed.
My body just did not like it and seemed to be rejecting it.
So there I was, for six months, lopsided.
Implant in one side, sock stuffing the other.
On the bright side, I knew, even through all these complications I had done the right thing.
After the surgery I looked years younger.
It turns out the constant thought of dying ages one considerably.
A year later, I had an implant put back in.
This time, the Doctor used a different method.
This time, my body didn't reject it.
This time would be the last surgery.
It's now 12 years later, I am used to my "new" breasts, tattooed nipples and all.
I have no feeling where the old breast tissue used to be.
I have large scars that go across each breast, one on the right side and 3 on the left.
And I know that one day, my saline implants will break and I will yet again, have to have another surgery.
I'll never forget that long walk down that hallway to the operating room.
I certainly don't relish the thought of ever doing that again.
But I don't regret it one bit.
This surgery is not for everyone, but it is an option.
If you are considering this route as a way to prevent breast cancer, please do your research first.
Different doctors have different approaches to how they reconstruct the breast.
Ask for pictures, and ask to speak to previous patients who have had the same surgery.
As many women as I have spoken to who have had this surgery, it seems that we all had different experiences.
And considering some of the stories I've heard, I might just be one of the lucky ones!
