Eye Candy

My days teem with the urgency of the constant demands of the overflowing berry crops, must pick, must pick, and the shortening of summer days, which spill from one to the other so quickly that I scramble to grasp a moment that feels like mine. For so long, I have measured out my days by remaining jail time, days left before my next procedure or doctor's appointment, that I have to really strive to stay in the present. My calendar remains at the mercy of visits with the plastic surgeon, oncologist, physical therapist, acupuncturist, chiropractor, and dermatologist, a ceaseless parade of appointments that clutter my calendar with an annoying persistence. Where are all those blank canvas days that I have been craving?

And yet, I feel incredibly lucky to have assembled such a great team of docs and body workers, a real medicine wheel of wisdom and warmth. I like them all.

Since my exchange surgery four weeks ago, I have seen my wonderful plastic surgeon, Dr. Pitts, three times. Once, three weeks ago, when my mother drove me in for an overall check to see how things were healing. A second time, a week after the first, to clip the ends of the stitches, make sure the implant was in a good position (it was), and reinforce the restrictions and status of the remainder of my jail time (no wearing bras, no lifting of more than 5 pounds on either side, no rigorous activity, no sleeping on left side, and a final check in two weeks to make sure all was well before gradually resuming normal activity). Dominick and I braved an amazingly fierce hail storm just as we were leaving her Wellesley office; thunder boomed and wind bent trees as torrential rains flooded the parking lot and hail stones dropped on all the cars, setting off enough car alarms to reenact a chorus of peepers in a springtime pond. And just yesterday, I saw Dr. Pitts for the third time, driving into Faulkner Hospital in Boston with Luke and Dominick, my trusty, if forever squabbling, companions.

A few days before my appointment, I received a letter from Lisa, Dr. Pitt’s administrative assistant, confirming my nipple construction on August 19th at Newton Wellesley Hospital. “Enclosed you will find nipple placements,” she wrote. “A few days prior to your surgery, it is important to try one on in the standing position and lying down checking in the mirror for correct location/placement to match the opposite side and remove it. The morning of your surgery, it is necessary to wear one to the hospital. Dr. Pitts will review the placement with you prior to your procedure.”

Nipple placements? I looked in the envelope: no nipple placements in sight. Of course, I wasn’t exactly sure what I was looking for. A stick-on nipple with adhesive back? An areola-laced nipple cut out from cardstock? Drawing? Photograph? Watercolor?

Clearly, Lisa had forgotten to include the nipple placements in the envelope. Shall I make my own? Hey kids, let’s make nipple doilies today. Mom needs to try to figure out where her new one should go.

This third visit with Dr. Pitts would be important: I could ask her about the nipple placements (would they be anything like nipple tassels?), I would, I hoped, receive her permission to start dancing through life again, and I could hear more about my next procedure: getting my new nipple.

Once we arrived at Dr. Pitts' office, the boys settled in with their books, and I was able to ask Lisa about the missing nipple placements. “Oh, I always forget to put those in the envelope!” She handed me a few packages of round bandaids. That’s it? Round bandaids? What a let down! "Take these home and try one on to see how it looks. You might need to move it a little bit before you find the perfect spot.”

As I walked into the examination room, I felt a phantom of old terror wash through me. I hadn't been to the Faulkner office since my initial consultation with Dr. Pitts months ago, when I was nearly shaking with fear--but swallowing it all down--unsure of what to expect, of what the pathology reports might bring, of what kind of treatment the oncologist would recommend. I still had my left breast then, and so much ahead of me. And now?

Dr. Pitts told me not to worry about the nipple placements. “We’ll go over exactly where it should go before the operation.” Good thing, because I was thinking that I'd probably get it all wrong, and knowing me, my new nipple would end up completely left of center. She reminded me that the procedure would be done in the operating room, under local anesthesia, so there will be no need to fast before the procedure, and no long, drawn-out detox afterwards. Hurrah for small miracles. After four surgeries in six months, I don’t think my body can tolerate more general anesthesia. But I did wonder: given the local anesthesia, will I be compelled to watch my new nipple being constructed, or will I close my eyes, find my inner Zen zone, and try to meditate on something other than the iciness of the incision slice, and the muted pull and tug of skin as Dr. Pitts somehow transforms skin from my poor-beaten up left breast into something resembling a nipple? It’d be a helluva lot easier if the nipple could be constructed down by my toes.

Dr. Pitts explained the procedure again, how she will use a flap of skin from my left breast to create the nipple, and that though I will be fully awake, there will be a sheet in front of my face and everything but the procedure site will be covered. I feign disappointment: Oh, so I won’t be able to watch it. Really I am thinking that I will definitely ask for a sedative. “I’ll be talking to you the whole time, and there will be music playing…” Music? I try to imagine what they might choose: Mozart? The Clash? Kanye? Work it, make it, do it, makes us harder, better, faster, stronger...N-n-now that that don't kill me, will only make me stronger. Uh-huh. She continued, “But even so, sometimes people have a hard time with it, since it’s done in an operating room, and it’s all a little strange.” A little strange? What hasn’t been strange about this whole experience? Every now and then, when I catch a glimpse of my partially-reconstructed, scarred breast in the mirror, and I feel, in my inner sanctum, the intensity of my loss, I am at once repelled by and joined together with the utter strangeness of it all--my new girl, this strange new world. But as I venture forth, my familiarity with this world--full of fear and hope--diminishes the outlandish nature of whatever might come next. And I must remember: I will be grateful for the fact that my labia folds will be left alone, thank you. Because there’s strange, and then there’s really strange. Ya.

My new nipple will not match my old one in projection; six years of nursing babies and toddlers makes that nearly impossible. But it is no matter. Symmetry, as we know, is overrated. I am excited to get my new nipple, to persist (else desist!) on this road of recovery and reconstruction, even if that symmetry continues to elude me. It's funny--I put on a bathing suit the other day and stood in front of the mirror, scrutinizing my chest, and it seemed as if my right nipple was positively bounding out of the fabric, yodeling Here I am! Look at me!, while my nippleless left breast was, by contrast, retreating into my chest, Don't mind me, please, I'm not quite done yet. And if I looked carefully enough, I could see the outline of my scar cutting across at a diagonal. I had to laugh--I don’t think I ever gave my chest a second look before all this surgery, and wouldn't have cared if one nipple was predominant over the other. Silly, silly!

Nipple culture is interesting. Everyone has their own nipple hang-ups and preferences, I’ve learned. My friend Clinton was musing with me about how some people go to great lengths to try to disguise their more “prominent” nipples while others don’t seem to care a bit how intrusive and perky theirs are. Nipple prominence aside, just the thought of nipple piercing is enough to make some people shudder, while others gladly enter into the arena of slaking a decorative pin through one of the more sensitive spots on the human body. Need a place to put Grandma’s brooch? Why not through the nipple! Ouch!

Evolutionary speaking, nipples and the surrounding hyper-pigmented areola have played a huge part in the advancement of the human race! Ever wondered how newborn babies can find their mother’s nipple on their own? It’s called the Breast Crawl, and it’s utterly amazing. Given enough time, babies will make their way, by using a combination of sensory skills and perceptions, to their mother’s nipple and latch on by themselves, signaling when they wish to start feeding. Most mammals do it, of course. And there’s a very good reason for it: survival.

The areola serves as a kind of target for the newborn, who sees best in contrasting patterns, hence, the hyper-pigmented, darker color of the nipple and areola than the rest of the breast. Eye candy, indeed!

At the end of my appointment, Dr. Pitts and I talked briefly about waiting another two months after my nipple procedure for my eye candy, when the pinkish color of the nipple and areola are tattooed on during an office visit. We joked about my request for a lizard tattoo at my first consultation with her. And then, she released me, reminding me to go into full flight gradually, bit by bit, so as to not damage my wings.

When I returned home, there was a message on our machine from my dermatologist's office. All the moles biopsied were benign. Instantly, I felt a sudden shift inside, a release of pent up dread, and a new lightness underfoot. YES! Fist pump, two arm salute. I'm golden.

Today, just a couple of hours ago, I tried out my new wings at the local pool, where I entered the cool water and felt, for the first time this summer, the refreshment of a late afternoon dip. I slowly pushed off and made my way down to the deep end. My stroke of choice? Why, breast stroke of course! Though it felt strange (what else?) at first, fish flapping across my chest with each pull through the water, it felt good to be back in the water. Ten laps later, I had aired out my wings and lungs and was ready to wrap myself up in a towel. I realized I still don't feel confident about my changed body, this work in progress. I feel unfinished, incomplete. There is work to do.

Tomorrow, perhaps I'll play some tennis with Luke, who has been asking day in day out if I can play with him. Perhaps my fish will flap a little less, and learn to swim with me. Perhaps, one day, I won't notice it at all.

Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson