It’s Thursday, and the rain has cast a damp chill about the air outside and in the house and I find myself longing for the warm festivity of yesterday, when the sun shone bright and set the world ablaze with a parade of colors that I wanted to bottle and save for later, when I might release the poplar yellows and fiery reds and oranges of the sugar and swamp maples into the monochromatic, steel cold white ice of winter.
Yesterday was one of those days that I just wanted to wrap around me and wear, over and over again, to keep out the chill of the most current crop of global chaos and crisis, cloak that raw vulnerability that gives rise to the phantoms of fear, and rose tint my world against the impending loss of light and color. The boys and I even went outside to read and write poetry, and we stumbled upon this beauty from Robert Frost that seemed to capture the day perfectly.
OCTOBER
O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at the break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away;
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—
For the grapes’ sake along the wall.
~ Robert Frost
Somehow, the rich ripeness of the day kept me close, and I did not think about today’s unraveling, but only of the wish to make it all last a little longer.
Despite the fact that my birthday was two days ago, and the rain has come to shut the parade down, today is the day that I get to actually unwrap my birthday present, and yet as curious and eager as I am to see what’s inside, I am reluctant, too. I’m not quite sure what I’ll find underneath all the layers of thick cushiony bandages and adhesive tape. What exactly will my new nipple look like? What will it feel like? And what if I don’t like it? What if it looks horrible? What if it really smarts when I take the bandages off? When I shower? What if it’s still bleeding? And how will it change my left girl? Will she look better for the adornment, or will she have lost the purity of her naked self?
Somehow it’s fitting, then, that I was able to keep myself under wraps until today, and reveal myself not on a day that blazed with the spectacle of the autumn heraldry but instead, wait until the rains had come to wash out the colors and mute the pageantry, so that the subtle reckoning might be fully heard. The day seemed destined to break free from yesterday’s display, leaving itself and the girl unwrapped, changed, somehow, different, bared. Here I am.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
I don’t know if it was just the swirl of anticipation and anxiety that was messing with my calm or the full moon rising swollen and powerful at my back, or the fact that I was heading into day #66 of my cycle without getting my period, but I suddenly was wishing I had driven in alone, and could stew in my dread without having to explain myself. But here I was, off to see the Wizard, and somewhere along the start of the Yellow Brick Road, I had picked up three traveling companions, Luke, Dominick, and my mother, all eager to help me stave off the lions, tigers, and bears that were surely waiting behind the OR doors.
(Remind me to never drive with my knees in front of my mother again.)
For the most part, we traveled easily through the Route 2 corridor. No flying monkeys, no fields of poppies, no unexpected fires, just a few state troopers trawling the roadways for speedsters on their broomsticks. Early in the trip, and still relatively close to home, when my stress levels about running late were just about peaking, we were slowed to a crawl when forced to follow a line-painter truck laying down a meticulous white stripe on the right hand side of the road. For a split second, I wanted to drive through the wet paint and leave white tire tracks in diaphanous ribbons of haphazard joy all across the pavement, but I quickly realized my bad temper had left me with a penchant for trouble, so I dutifully obeyed the cop who had kindly asked me to follow him, and the line-painter truck, with care, and it’s all I could to do to stay clear of the wet paint.
The crunch of tortilla chips and the snap of grapes filled the car for much of the morning, and we quibbled over being quiet so we could listen to the audiobook (the excellent “Mayflower” by Nathaniel Philbrick), and over still being hungry. Harrold, bless her heart, told us we had time, even, to stop for a snack at the Natural Gourmet in West Concord, so the car filled again, this time with the smell of dumplings and sesame noodles and root beer and hazelnut wafer cookies, and by the time we had arrived at Newton-Wellesley Hospital, the boys’ bellies were filled with contentment.
After registering, filling out more medical forms, and getting my nifty id bracelet, we all headed off to pre-op, with its all-too familiar curtained rooms, the steady stream of nurses and surgeons roving about in masks and scrubs, and the sound of wheelchairs and gurneys being rolled to and fro, doors swinging open and closed, voices whispering in low tones. When we arrived at my little curtained room, there is no gurney, just a single chair in the corner, so we had to wait for awhile with our backs helping to hold up the walls of the surgical center until a nurse came in with a fresh bed on wheels. I could tell, by the rush of people just beyond the curtain, and the hint of confusion drumming the air, that the full moon was working its magic on the operations of the OR, infusing a bit of chaos into this well-oiled machine, and I suddenly realized that I should expect the unexpected on days like this.
But nothing would befall me. No menstrual mischief. No green tea emergencies. No sneezing fits or slips of the scalpel or needle. Initially, after I had said my quick good-byes to my mother and the kids, there was some confusion by a few of the pre-op nurses, when they assumed that I would of course be having general anesthesia in order to have a procedure like this done, and so, despite my insistence that it was to be done locally, stubbornly got out the IV equipment and admonished me for eating earlier in the morning (just when I was feeling light-headed and wishing I had had something more to eat!). Finally, they were set straight by a wonderful nurse named Marti, a familiar face from my last surgery, who took over and restored calm and order to the scene.
On a day when I would get my new nipple, it was a minor, unequivocal ripple.
It soon became clear that the surgery was going to happen much later than the originally scheduled time of 1:50 (can you say Mercury in reverse?). A nurse brought me a stack of magazines, told me to settle in for a bit. There wasn’t much else to do, but sink back into the soft pillow, try to replace my anxiety away with, say, interesting ideas for sprucing up my living room, and try to enjoy this little delay.
About an hour and a half later, the magazines long since discarded on the empty chair next to me, my patience for just sitting and worrying and staring at the blue curtain starting to wear thin, the OR finally nurse came in, telling me what a great job Dr. Pitts does with new nipples (hurrah!), that she’d witnessed several of the procedures, and everyone had done remarkably well with it. Marti asked if she might watch the procedure, since she had never seen it before, and I said of course, that I didn’t mind at all. Later, the OR nurse explained that it helped ensure better pre-op care if the nurses had a better understanding of what the patients would experience in the OR, especially since they were heading in wide awake, and without the buffer of sedation, leaving them vulnerable to a few more emotional complications than usual (ie, a total freak-out).
Dr. Pitts arrived, and I suddenly felt much more relaxed. She had me sit on the edge of the bed, hands on my hips, while she used black marker and measuring tape to pinpoint the exact location of where my new nipple should go. She quickly peeled off and did away with the nipple placement sticker that I had put on earlier in the day after some serious deliberation (but no measuring or math, admittedly) and it was immediately clear that the nipple placement exercise was simply a way to make the patient feel more in control of something that they had absolutely no control over whatsoever. And as I had said before, I was completely happy to have Dr. Pitts do the math, so to speak, and figure out where it should go. What did I know?
It was interesting to watch her figure it all out. It was one of the more fascinating, unusual real-world applications of math I’ve ever witnessed, actually. She measured and marked the center of my chest, including the top of breast bone and the middle spot in between my two girls, then from center line to right nipple, and finally, from center line to where left nipple would be according to the triangulation and configuration of right nipple. Sound complicated? Think of a sprightly squirrel using the same methods of triangulation to figure out where she’s buried, or should bury, her acorns and chestnuts, and you’ve got the general idea.
Since my right nipple is slightly lateral, or headlighting a bit to the side, Dr. Pitts decided to position my left one similarly, but not as lateral, explaining that “nipple constructions don’t do very well in such a lateral spot,” or something of the sort. In her words, she said she would “split the difference.”
After about six or seven minutes of marking her calculations in black on my chest, and drawing the modified star flap near the scar on my left girl, which she would later slice to life and reconfigure, the flower-like pieces fitting together like a puzzle, into a nipple, she covered me back up, had me lie back down, and told me what to expect: some people do freak out, she cautioned, because of the big OR lights (there is no minor-procedure room at NWH), masked docs and nurses, and general surrealness of the scene, but she would be talking to me the whole time, and music would be playing, and she knew I’d do just fine.
I did too, actually. I really like Dr. Pitts, and I think she is incredibly competent. I had no worries. I had emptied my bladder. I hadn’t gotten my period. I wasn’t sneezing. And finally, finally, I’d be getting this over with.
The last time I had been wheeled into the OR room at NWH I had been mostly awake, a bit loopy but not totally gone, and remembered the big “stage” lights and the general cold sterility of the room, but my awareness then had lasted only a half minute, and I had been put under instantly, and missed out on all the fun. This time would be different. Because I was awake and fully cognizant of what was happening, I would be able to further my understanding, and therefore lessen my anxiety, of what really went on in the OR. In a strange way, I was looking forward to this. I liked the idea of being awake for this, of being an observer, a participant, even, and not just a knocked out, limp body.
As with most surgeries, everything happened pretty quickly. I got up from my wheelchair and climbed up onto the OR table, a narrow strip of blessed comfort (ha!) and serenity. They asked me to position my arms out to the sides, noticed my goose bumps, and proceeded to swaddle me in warm blankets. Lying in this position, I was glad that my blue surgical cap was infinitely softer than the crown of thorns I could have been wearing. My right pointer finger lay clutched and clipped in the embrace of a monitor that made sure I was breathing deeply, my oxygen levels translated into an annoying series of beeps that would soon fade into the background. A blood pressure strap intermittently squeezed my arm, making sure I was not in freak out mode, and music, and good music at that, was being piped into the room at just the right decibel, not overpowering and forcing the issue (You will relax! You will!), but filling the room with just the right amount of a more relaxing vibe than the incessant beeps and hushed voices could provide.
After Dr. Pitts scrubbed me down with thick, sticky brown Betadine solution, the nurses erected a tall tent of sterility, a bit of germ warfare, directly in front of my face, blocking my view of the surgical spot and making me feel curiously detached from the rest of my body. The smell of the unfurled cloth was a bit noxious, so much so that I offered, difficult patient that I am, what I think was my only bit of constructive criticism during the procedure: to scent the cloth with lavender, and allow the patient to reap the benefits of the ensuing, relaxing aromatherapy. The nurses did their best to keep the “curtain” off my face, and I was grateful, because the stranglehold of claustrophobia had begun to creep in, and I was aware of having to intentionally fill my belly with slow, deep breaths to try to keep it at bay. The smell and the claustrophobia soon dissipated, as I grew accustomed to the gauzy barrier that separated me and Dr. Pitts. I was glad for the distance it provided; as much as I was curious about what she was doing, I didn’t really want to see her cut into my skin, mop up my blood, and stitch me up.
Just before the anesthesia needle went in, over and over again, the slow burn of the drug emanating throughout the area, I tried to imagine being in my acupuncturist’s office, breathing in and out as the needles were positioned, waiting for the sudden zap of the electrical current, the rush of the release, the gradually awakening of the relaxation response. It seemed to work, and I didn’t really feel a thing, just the pressure of Dr. Pitts’ fingers, scalpel, needle and stitch as she worked to slice and dice, carve my pumpkin girl, and make me a nipple.
For about forty or so minutes, I lay there surrounded by Dr. Pitts and the OR nurses, and Marti, who had come in to see, for the first time, just how it was that a nipple can be constructed out of skin under local anesthesia in less than an hour. Dr. Pitts and I struck up a conversation, and the other women chimed in every now and then, but I felt as if Dr. Pitts and I were chatting over tea, or lunch, or a soccer game, talking about music, our kids, and daily lives in that easy way that women can slip so comfortably into, regardless, it seems, of who might be performing surgery on whom.
The effortless conversation, vibe of focused productivity and craftsmanship, and ring of female faces reminded me a bit of being at a quilting circle, but I had the sense of being underneath it all, of being there and being a part of it but being separate, and of being the one who was being quilted upon. I could feel Dr. Pitts at work; a sense of being poked and prodded, pushed this way and that, something being peeled back, wound together, mopped up. For a while, it felt as if someone was making sand castles on my chest, and I could almost feel the sensations of scraping, digging, moving and smoothing of the sand, and then someone was hammering out a clay pot, with gentle pounding and coiling and careful piecing together, and then kneading a thick slab of dough, punching, turning, shaping. The final minutes were less dramatic, and just as painless. I could feel the focus narrow, as if Dr. Pitts were now using embroidery thread to stitch something complicated and delicate onto my chest.
Throughout the entire time, there was music floating about in a wonderful, unobtrusive way; I could catch it or not, but it was there if I needed it. It was all good music, straight from Dr. Pitts’ i-Pod "mellow mix," and I was glad for it, the familiarity of old favorites like Bonnie Raitt, Tracy Chapman, and Dire Straits adding to the semblance that this was somewhere other than the OR, that Dr. Pitts was doing something other than fashioning a nipple out of skin from my breast, and that I, perhaps, was surrounded not by nurses and doctors, but by old friends. Every so often the beeping would intrude, or the blood pressure band would tighten, snuffing out all the oxygen in that little finger of mine and ceasing the beeping for a few seconds, until the band would unravel, the nurses would whisper in astonishment about how my blood pressure kept going down during the procedure, and the beeping would resume, allowing me to resume conversation, or catch the end of a song.
Yesterday was one of those days that I just wanted to wrap around me and wear, over and over again, to keep out the chill of the most current crop of global chaos and crisis, cloak that raw vulnerability that gives rise to the phantoms of fear, and rose tint my world against the impending loss of light and color. The boys and I even went outside to read and write poetry, and we stumbled upon this beauty from Robert Frost that seemed to capture the day perfectly.
OCTOBER
O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at the break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away;
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—
For the grapes’ sake along the wall.
~ Robert Frost
Somehow, the rich ripeness of the day kept me close, and I did not think about today’s unraveling, but only of the wish to make it all last a little longer.
Despite the fact that my birthday was two days ago, and the rain has come to shut the parade down, today is the day that I get to actually unwrap my birthday present, and yet as curious and eager as I am to see what’s inside, I am reluctant, too. I’m not quite sure what I’ll find underneath all the layers of thick cushiony bandages and adhesive tape. What exactly will my new nipple look like? What will it feel like? And what if I don’t like it? What if it looks horrible? What if it really smarts when I take the bandages off? When I shower? What if it’s still bleeding? And how will it change my left girl? Will she look better for the adornment, or will she have lost the purity of her naked self?
Somehow it’s fitting, then, that I was able to keep myself under wraps until today, and reveal myself not on a day that blazed with the spectacle of the autumn heraldry but instead, wait until the rains had come to wash out the colors and mute the pageantry, so that the subtle reckoning might be fully heard. The day seemed destined to break free from yesterday’s display, leaving itself and the girl unwrapped, changed, somehow, different, bared. Here I am.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
I don’t know if it was just the swirl of anticipation and anxiety that was messing with my calm or the full moon rising swollen and powerful at my back, or the fact that I was heading into day #66 of my cycle without getting my period, but I suddenly was wishing I had driven in alone, and could stew in my dread without having to explain myself. But here I was, off to see the Wizard, and somewhere along the start of the Yellow Brick Road, I had picked up three traveling companions, Luke, Dominick, and my mother, all eager to help me stave off the lions, tigers, and bears that were surely waiting behind the OR doors.
(Remind me to never drive with my knees in front of my mother again.)
For the most part, we traveled easily through the Route 2 corridor. No flying monkeys, no fields of poppies, no unexpected fires, just a few state troopers trawling the roadways for speedsters on their broomsticks. Early in the trip, and still relatively close to home, when my stress levels about running late were just about peaking, we were slowed to a crawl when forced to follow a line-painter truck laying down a meticulous white stripe on the right hand side of the road. For a split second, I wanted to drive through the wet paint and leave white tire tracks in diaphanous ribbons of haphazard joy all across the pavement, but I quickly realized my bad temper had left me with a penchant for trouble, so I dutifully obeyed the cop who had kindly asked me to follow him, and the line-painter truck, with care, and it’s all I could to do to stay clear of the wet paint.
The crunch of tortilla chips and the snap of grapes filled the car for much of the morning, and we quibbled over being quiet so we could listen to the audiobook (the excellent “Mayflower” by Nathaniel Philbrick), and over still being hungry. Harrold, bless her heart, told us we had time, even, to stop for a snack at the Natural Gourmet in West Concord, so the car filled again, this time with the smell of dumplings and sesame noodles and root beer and hazelnut wafer cookies, and by the time we had arrived at Newton-Wellesley Hospital, the boys’ bellies were filled with contentment.
After registering, filling out more medical forms, and getting my nifty id bracelet, we all headed off to pre-op, with its all-too familiar curtained rooms, the steady stream of nurses and surgeons roving about in masks and scrubs, and the sound of wheelchairs and gurneys being rolled to and fro, doors swinging open and closed, voices whispering in low tones. When we arrived at my little curtained room, there is no gurney, just a single chair in the corner, so we had to wait for awhile with our backs helping to hold up the walls of the surgical center until a nurse came in with a fresh bed on wheels. I could tell, by the rush of people just beyond the curtain, and the hint of confusion drumming the air, that the full moon was working its magic on the operations of the OR, infusing a bit of chaos into this well-oiled machine, and I suddenly realized that I should expect the unexpected on days like this.
But nothing would befall me. No menstrual mischief. No green tea emergencies. No sneezing fits or slips of the scalpel or needle. Initially, after I had said my quick good-byes to my mother and the kids, there was some confusion by a few of the pre-op nurses, when they assumed that I would of course be having general anesthesia in order to have a procedure like this done, and so, despite my insistence that it was to be done locally, stubbornly got out the IV equipment and admonished me for eating earlier in the morning (just when I was feeling light-headed and wishing I had had something more to eat!). Finally, they were set straight by a wonderful nurse named Marti, a familiar face from my last surgery, who took over and restored calm and order to the scene.
On a day when I would get my new nipple, it was a minor, unequivocal ripple.
It soon became clear that the surgery was going to happen much later than the originally scheduled time of 1:50 (can you say Mercury in reverse?). A nurse brought me a stack of magazines, told me to settle in for a bit. There wasn’t much else to do, but sink back into the soft pillow, try to replace my anxiety away with, say, interesting ideas for sprucing up my living room, and try to enjoy this little delay.
About an hour and a half later, the magazines long since discarded on the empty chair next to me, my patience for just sitting and worrying and staring at the blue curtain starting to wear thin, the OR finally nurse came in, telling me what a great job Dr. Pitts does with new nipples (hurrah!), that she’d witnessed several of the procedures, and everyone had done remarkably well with it. Marti asked if she might watch the procedure, since she had never seen it before, and I said of course, that I didn’t mind at all. Later, the OR nurse explained that it helped ensure better pre-op care if the nurses had a better understanding of what the patients would experience in the OR, especially since they were heading in wide awake, and without the buffer of sedation, leaving them vulnerable to a few more emotional complications than usual (ie, a total freak-out).
Dr. Pitts arrived, and I suddenly felt much more relaxed. She had me sit on the edge of the bed, hands on my hips, while she used black marker and measuring tape to pinpoint the exact location of where my new nipple should go. She quickly peeled off and did away with the nipple placement sticker that I had put on earlier in the day after some serious deliberation (but no measuring or math, admittedly) and it was immediately clear that the nipple placement exercise was simply a way to make the patient feel more in control of something that they had absolutely no control over whatsoever. And as I had said before, I was completely happy to have Dr. Pitts do the math, so to speak, and figure out where it should go. What did I know?
It was interesting to watch her figure it all out. It was one of the more fascinating, unusual real-world applications of math I’ve ever witnessed, actually. She measured and marked the center of my chest, including the top of breast bone and the middle spot in between my two girls, then from center line to right nipple, and finally, from center line to where left nipple would be according to the triangulation and configuration of right nipple. Sound complicated? Think of a sprightly squirrel using the same methods of triangulation to figure out where she’s buried, or should bury, her acorns and chestnuts, and you’ve got the general idea.
Since my right nipple is slightly lateral, or headlighting a bit to the side, Dr. Pitts decided to position my left one similarly, but not as lateral, explaining that “nipple constructions don’t do very well in such a lateral spot,” or something of the sort. In her words, she said she would “split the difference.”
After about six or seven minutes of marking her calculations in black on my chest, and drawing the modified star flap near the scar on my left girl, which she would later slice to life and reconfigure, the flower-like pieces fitting together like a puzzle, into a nipple, she covered me back up, had me lie back down, and told me what to expect: some people do freak out, she cautioned, because of the big OR lights (there is no minor-procedure room at NWH), masked docs and nurses, and general surrealness of the scene, but she would be talking to me the whole time, and music would be playing, and she knew I’d do just fine.
I did too, actually. I really like Dr. Pitts, and I think she is incredibly competent. I had no worries. I had emptied my bladder. I hadn’t gotten my period. I wasn’t sneezing. And finally, finally, I’d be getting this over with.
The last time I had been wheeled into the OR room at NWH I had been mostly awake, a bit loopy but not totally gone, and remembered the big “stage” lights and the general cold sterility of the room, but my awareness then had lasted only a half minute, and I had been put under instantly, and missed out on all the fun. This time would be different. Because I was awake and fully cognizant of what was happening, I would be able to further my understanding, and therefore lessen my anxiety, of what really went on in the OR. In a strange way, I was looking forward to this. I liked the idea of being awake for this, of being an observer, a participant, even, and not just a knocked out, limp body.
As with most surgeries, everything happened pretty quickly. I got up from my wheelchair and climbed up onto the OR table, a narrow strip of blessed comfort (ha!) and serenity. They asked me to position my arms out to the sides, noticed my goose bumps, and proceeded to swaddle me in warm blankets. Lying in this position, I was glad that my blue surgical cap was infinitely softer than the crown of thorns I could have been wearing. My right pointer finger lay clutched and clipped in the embrace of a monitor that made sure I was breathing deeply, my oxygen levels translated into an annoying series of beeps that would soon fade into the background. A blood pressure strap intermittently squeezed my arm, making sure I was not in freak out mode, and music, and good music at that, was being piped into the room at just the right decibel, not overpowering and forcing the issue (You will relax! You will!), but filling the room with just the right amount of a more relaxing vibe than the incessant beeps and hushed voices could provide.
After Dr. Pitts scrubbed me down with thick, sticky brown Betadine solution, the nurses erected a tall tent of sterility, a bit of germ warfare, directly in front of my face, blocking my view of the surgical spot and making me feel curiously detached from the rest of my body. The smell of the unfurled cloth was a bit noxious, so much so that I offered, difficult patient that I am, what I think was my only bit of constructive criticism during the procedure: to scent the cloth with lavender, and allow the patient to reap the benefits of the ensuing, relaxing aromatherapy. The nurses did their best to keep the “curtain” off my face, and I was grateful, because the stranglehold of claustrophobia had begun to creep in, and I was aware of having to intentionally fill my belly with slow, deep breaths to try to keep it at bay. The smell and the claustrophobia soon dissipated, as I grew accustomed to the gauzy barrier that separated me and Dr. Pitts. I was glad for the distance it provided; as much as I was curious about what she was doing, I didn’t really want to see her cut into my skin, mop up my blood, and stitch me up.
Just before the anesthesia needle went in, over and over again, the slow burn of the drug emanating throughout the area, I tried to imagine being in my acupuncturist’s office, breathing in and out as the needles were positioned, waiting for the sudden zap of the electrical current, the rush of the release, the gradually awakening of the relaxation response. It seemed to work, and I didn’t really feel a thing, just the pressure of Dr. Pitts’ fingers, scalpel, needle and stitch as she worked to slice and dice, carve my pumpkin girl, and make me a nipple.
For about forty or so minutes, I lay there surrounded by Dr. Pitts and the OR nurses, and Marti, who had come in to see, for the first time, just how it was that a nipple can be constructed out of skin under local anesthesia in less than an hour. Dr. Pitts and I struck up a conversation, and the other women chimed in every now and then, but I felt as if Dr. Pitts and I were chatting over tea, or lunch, or a soccer game, talking about music, our kids, and daily lives in that easy way that women can slip so comfortably into, regardless, it seems, of who might be performing surgery on whom.
The effortless conversation, vibe of focused productivity and craftsmanship, and ring of female faces reminded me a bit of being at a quilting circle, but I had the sense of being underneath it all, of being there and being a part of it but being separate, and of being the one who was being quilted upon. I could feel Dr. Pitts at work; a sense of being poked and prodded, pushed this way and that, something being peeled back, wound together, mopped up. For a while, it felt as if someone was making sand castles on my chest, and I could almost feel the sensations of scraping, digging, moving and smoothing of the sand, and then someone was hammering out a clay pot, with gentle pounding and coiling and careful piecing together, and then kneading a thick slab of dough, punching, turning, shaping. The final minutes were less dramatic, and just as painless. I could feel the focus narrow, as if Dr. Pitts were now using embroidery thread to stitch something complicated and delicate onto my chest.
Throughout the entire time, there was music floating about in a wonderful, unobtrusive way; I could catch it or not, but it was there if I needed it. It was all good music, straight from Dr. Pitts’ i-Pod "mellow mix," and I was glad for it, the familiarity of old favorites like Bonnie Raitt, Tracy Chapman, and Dire Straits adding to the semblance that this was somewhere other than the OR, that Dr. Pitts was doing something other than fashioning a nipple out of skin from my breast, and that I, perhaps, was surrounded not by nurses and doctors, but by old friends. Every so often the beeping would intrude, or the blood pressure band would tighten, snuffing out all the oxygen in that little finger of mine and ceasing the beeping for a few seconds, until the band would unravel, the nurses would whisper in astonishment about how my blood pressure kept going down during the procedure, and the beeping would resume, allowing me to resume conversation, or catch the end of a song.
There were several songs that transported me out of the OR: when Joan Armatrading’s Love and Affection came on, I was whisked back to Exeter days; when I heard Bruce Springsteen’s Secret Garden, I was infinitely grateful that it was this particular Springsteen song, one that I actually liked and not one of the loud, unruly ones that would have brought a rowdy bunch of Club Bacchus boys from Williams straight into the OR to shout out Boss songs around a keg of cheap bear; and when Neil Diamond's Sweet Caroline pushed its way through the conversation, I had to laugh (though stopped immediately after realizing that my laughter made my chest and belly heave, and I really didn’t want to mess Dr. Pitts up), thinking of Fenway, and the distinct possibility that maybe, just maybe the Sox would beat the Devil Rays to take the ALCS.
I hadn’t been worrying about laughing during the procedure. Sneezing, having to go pee, getting my period in the middle of it all, perhaps, but laughing? Funny thing is, as it turned out, the procedure was painless, it was simple, at least from my end, and relatively so, though I would never diminish Dr. Pitts’ impressive and complicated sculptural talents and say that for her it was a simple procedure; and if I may sound completely whacked, it was fun, quite possibly the best part of my day. No lions, tigers, or bears running amok in the OR. No green-faced, dog-stealing witches. So there. Instead, it really had been painless, simple, fun. Maybe birthday wishes do come true.
Before I was scrubbed down and bandaged up, the nurses all oohed and aahed over my new nipple. Beautiful, they said. Lovely. Amazing. It was odd not being able to see what they were looking at, but I knew that like many things, for good things you must wait.
By the time the curtain had come down, Dr. Pitts was putting the last of the adhesive tape over my left girl, who was at this time unrecognizable, topped with a big, bulbous cushiony wad of dressing that made her appear unsightly and unstable. Before she left, she gave me my final instructions: keep the bandages on for another 36 hours, at which time I could then take them off and shower and inspect things. Keep an eye out for bleeding, redness, any kind of discharge that might indicate infection. I was to only wear a soft bra, not to put any pressure on my left side, and abstain from vigorous exercise for about a week. And as for sleeping, good luck she said, and be careful not to sleep on the site; until the stitches were removed in another two weeks, I’d have to be careful not to pull any of them out. She said the nipple would shrink to be half the size it was now. I couldn’t help but think again of those big wooly nipple buttons on my grandmother’s old sweaters. Just what would it look like when I took the bandages off?!
I thanked Dr. Pitts, said I would see her in two weeks, and took a wheelchair ride into the post-op area, where it felt strange (and wonderful), for once, to be fully awake before I arrived, and though I was not fighting grogginess or nausea (hurray!), the nurse offered me juice and crackers, pain killers for the ride home, and paperwork, ever more paperwork, to sign. I changed back into my clothes just as Luke, Dominick, and my mother arrived, and the nurse, after seeing how ridiculous my girls looked under my fitted one brave chick shirt, brought me a blue scrubs shirt to wear over it and disguise, somewhat, the fact that my left girl looked about three times as big, and a zillion times as strange-looking, as my right girl.
After all, sometimes it’s hard to find the right wrapping paper for those odd-shaped, spherical gifts.
After a long drive home, there were more gifts that awaited me, and it was fun to actually be able to open a few presents, rather than simply stare at the wrapping and wonder what might be on the inside. But I was exhausted, ready to crash. And after all, my birthday had already been full of unexpected gifts and blessings: a six month cancer-free check up, a box full of personalized m & ms from my friend Mike, numerous greetings sent via email, voice mail, snail mail, and Facebook from friends and family, and a wonderful book of poems and essays by Mary Oliver from an old friend from Williams, who sent with it a touching letter containing this most wonderful birthday wish: “May you find in each day of this new year some sort of happy outcome, no matter how small, no matter how simple.” Thank you, Ginger. I can’t think of anything more perfect to wish for.
And there was the matter of my new nipple, of course, that wouldn’t be revealed for a few more days. But for now, I would have to be content to try to get some sleep. Between the lingering soreness and awkward bulkiness of my over-wrapped, misshapen birthday girl, the bright surge of moon light flooding the windows and the lure of the debate, I wasn’t counting on getting much. The buzz of the day finally fizzled out, and at some point in the early morning, I stumbled into sleep, dreaming of flying monkeys and the Wizard behind the curtain.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
It turns out the Wizard is a woman behind the curtain, and her name is Dr. Pitts. And she made me a beautiful nipple. I don’t know exactly how she did it, but there it is, staring back at me from the other side of the mirror.
The adhesive was a bitch to get off, as I suspected it would be, but once I figured out how to hold my skin down along the edges while I peeled it off, it hurt a whole lot less. After about two or three minutes of careful peeling and it was nearly done, and once the last bit had been freed, the whole of the wrapping came off like an eggshell, revealing the pale pink, delicate new niplet inside. I was relieved when I saw it, because it didn’t look anything like those big wooly buttons that hung like oversized nipples from my grandmother’s sweaters. Despite being covered in dark, dried blood and stitches here, there, and everywhere, she looks like a nipple, after all, just a little worse for wear, perhaps, from the birthing process which brought her into this world from scratch. Her nubby, cylindrical end is less rounded than my right but absolutely suitable for the aesthetic purpose she now fulfills. And all that math? Well, clearly, it paid off. She sits in a great spot, balancing out my two girls with a symmetry that I haven’t had for a long time.
When I shower, I am surprised that the water cascading over my girl does not seem to bother the new nipple in the least. I soap up gingerly, being careful not to mess with Dr. Pitts’ work too much. The caked blood lies underneath the superglue that keeps the stitches in place, so it’ll have to stay until my appointment in two weeks. But once it’s off, and the stitches are out, and I get my tattoo coloring the deeper pink of the areola and nipple, my left girl will look amazing. I might not even recognize her.
For now, there’s a small bit of nipple that is still bleeding, so I carefully apply some ointment to it and try to whip up a bandaid that doesn’t press it down too much. It’s been a long while since I’ve had a nipple, even a fake one at that, and it seems strange to see a protrusion under my shirt again on that side, to feel the rub and scratch of clothing against skin, although since the majority of the feeling on that side has yet to return, it is a diminished sensation, but at least it’s there. My new nipple seems to be fitting in well. She’s still smarting a bit, and I’ve got to be mindful of her when I lift things, hug my boys, and pick up the cat, but she’s probably the coolest, weirdest birthday gift I’ve ever received. And she was definitely worth the wait. (Thank you, Dr. Pitts!)
I hadn’t been worrying about laughing during the procedure. Sneezing, having to go pee, getting my period in the middle of it all, perhaps, but laughing? Funny thing is, as it turned out, the procedure was painless, it was simple, at least from my end, and relatively so, though I would never diminish Dr. Pitts’ impressive and complicated sculptural talents and say that for her it was a simple procedure; and if I may sound completely whacked, it was fun, quite possibly the best part of my day. No lions, tigers, or bears running amok in the OR. No green-faced, dog-stealing witches. So there. Instead, it really had been painless, simple, fun. Maybe birthday wishes do come true.
Before I was scrubbed down and bandaged up, the nurses all oohed and aahed over my new nipple. Beautiful, they said. Lovely. Amazing. It was odd not being able to see what they were looking at, but I knew that like many things, for good things you must wait.
By the time the curtain had come down, Dr. Pitts was putting the last of the adhesive tape over my left girl, who was at this time unrecognizable, topped with a big, bulbous cushiony wad of dressing that made her appear unsightly and unstable. Before she left, she gave me my final instructions: keep the bandages on for another 36 hours, at which time I could then take them off and shower and inspect things. Keep an eye out for bleeding, redness, any kind of discharge that might indicate infection. I was to only wear a soft bra, not to put any pressure on my left side, and abstain from vigorous exercise for about a week. And as for sleeping, good luck she said, and be careful not to sleep on the site; until the stitches were removed in another two weeks, I’d have to be careful not to pull any of them out. She said the nipple would shrink to be half the size it was now. I couldn’t help but think again of those big wooly nipple buttons on my grandmother’s old sweaters. Just what would it look like when I took the bandages off?!
I thanked Dr. Pitts, said I would see her in two weeks, and took a wheelchair ride into the post-op area, where it felt strange (and wonderful), for once, to be fully awake before I arrived, and though I was not fighting grogginess or nausea (hurray!), the nurse offered me juice and crackers, pain killers for the ride home, and paperwork, ever more paperwork, to sign. I changed back into my clothes just as Luke, Dominick, and my mother arrived, and the nurse, after seeing how ridiculous my girls looked under my fitted one brave chick shirt, brought me a blue scrubs shirt to wear over it and disguise, somewhat, the fact that my left girl looked about three times as big, and a zillion times as strange-looking, as my right girl.
After all, sometimes it’s hard to find the right wrapping paper for those odd-shaped, spherical gifts.
After a long drive home, there were more gifts that awaited me, and it was fun to actually be able to open a few presents, rather than simply stare at the wrapping and wonder what might be on the inside. But I was exhausted, ready to crash. And after all, my birthday had already been full of unexpected gifts and blessings: a six month cancer-free check up, a box full of personalized m & ms from my friend Mike, numerous greetings sent via email, voice mail, snail mail, and Facebook from friends and family, and a wonderful book of poems and essays by Mary Oliver from an old friend from Williams, who sent with it a touching letter containing this most wonderful birthday wish: “May you find in each day of this new year some sort of happy outcome, no matter how small, no matter how simple.” Thank you, Ginger. I can’t think of anything more perfect to wish for.
And there was the matter of my new nipple, of course, that wouldn’t be revealed for a few more days. But for now, I would have to be content to try to get some sleep. Between the lingering soreness and awkward bulkiness of my over-wrapped, misshapen birthday girl, the bright surge of moon light flooding the windows and the lure of the debate, I wasn’t counting on getting much. The buzz of the day finally fizzled out, and at some point in the early morning, I stumbled into sleep, dreaming of flying monkeys and the Wizard behind the curtain.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
It turns out the Wizard is a woman behind the curtain, and her name is Dr. Pitts. And she made me a beautiful nipple. I don’t know exactly how she did it, but there it is, staring back at me from the other side of the mirror.
The adhesive was a bitch to get off, as I suspected it would be, but once I figured out how to hold my skin down along the edges while I peeled it off, it hurt a whole lot less. After about two or three minutes of careful peeling and it was nearly done, and once the last bit had been freed, the whole of the wrapping came off like an eggshell, revealing the pale pink, delicate new niplet inside. I was relieved when I saw it, because it didn’t look anything like those big wooly buttons that hung like oversized nipples from my grandmother’s sweaters. Despite being covered in dark, dried blood and stitches here, there, and everywhere, she looks like a nipple, after all, just a little worse for wear, perhaps, from the birthing process which brought her into this world from scratch. Her nubby, cylindrical end is less rounded than my right but absolutely suitable for the aesthetic purpose she now fulfills. And all that math? Well, clearly, it paid off. She sits in a great spot, balancing out my two girls with a symmetry that I haven’t had for a long time.
When I shower, I am surprised that the water cascading over my girl does not seem to bother the new nipple in the least. I soap up gingerly, being careful not to mess with Dr. Pitts’ work too much. The caked blood lies underneath the superglue that keeps the stitches in place, so it’ll have to stay until my appointment in two weeks. But once it’s off, and the stitches are out, and I get my tattoo coloring the deeper pink of the areola and nipple, my left girl will look amazing. I might not even recognize her.
For now, there’s a small bit of nipple that is still bleeding, so I carefully apply some ointment to it and try to whip up a bandaid that doesn’t press it down too much. It’s been a long while since I’ve had a nipple, even a fake one at that, and it seems strange to see a protrusion under my shirt again on that side, to feel the rub and scratch of clothing against skin, although since the majority of the feeling on that side has yet to return, it is a diminished sensation, but at least it’s there. My new nipple seems to be fitting in well. She’s still smarting a bit, and I’ve got to be mindful of her when I lift things, hug my boys, and pick up the cat, but she’s probably the coolest, weirdest birthday gift I’ve ever received. And she was definitely worth the wait. (Thank you, Dr. Pitts!)
Black Snake
I startled a young black snake; he
flew over the grass and hid his face
under a leaf, the rest of him in plain sight.
Little brother, often I’ve done the same.
~ Mary Oliver
I startled a young black snake; he
flew over the grass and hid his face
under a leaf, the rest of him in plain sight.
Little brother, often I’ve done the same.
~ Mary Oliver
1 comment:
Liz,
It sounds like this final piece went well for you. I'm so glad!
Maribeth
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