A few weeks after the exchange surgery, I reported to my oncologist’s office for my three-month check-up. I had not seen Dr. T and Mitch since my last chemo session, and it seemed like forever. When my mom arrived, I was in my bathrobe, freshly showered and fully made up.
“You look beautiful, darling. You sure are getting done up for Dr. T,” she commented while I slipped on my silver hoops. I was too nervous to admit that today was a big day in a string of big days to come over the next five years. It’s a good sign when you are cancer-free for one year. It’s great after two. Pretty freakin’ fantastic after three. Amazing after four. And hallelujah after five. The three-month visits, which we hoped would turn into six-month visits, were difficult.
Andrew and I parked the car and held hands as we walked down Second Avenue. “You okay?” he asked. I shrugged. Fortunately, I was Dr. T’s first appointment, and we weren’t sitting in the waiting room long before Mitch came to retrieve us.
“Hi, guys. How’s it going?” he said, bright-eyed.
“Things are good,” I blurted out. “Exchange surgery is done and I’m digging my new rack.”.
Unsure if he was supposed to look, or not look, remark, or not remark, Mitch sought Andrew’s help and I giggled.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s take some blood.” I didn’t need to tell Mitch about my veins—he was an expert. Dr. T walked in.
“Things look good, Deb,” he said. “Your numbers are good. Let’s get you on the table and check you out.” He examined under my arms, pressing firmly and continually on each breast, my abdomen, and neck. He stopped for a second at my left underarm and pressed again. And again. Breathe. “Everything okay?” I asked.
“Yes, just feeling around. Everything is fine.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
Dr. T stopped feeling me up, took my hands and looked at me—not my body. I started to cry.
“You’re okay. I don’t feel anything. Deb, your odds are good. Really good. That’s why you had the double mastectomy. That’s why you endured four rounds of chemo. To give yourself the best shot of beating this.” I had so much bottled inside me. I’d distracted myself by putting my life back together with Andrew and Matthew, decorating our apartment, and having the exchange surgery. But it was still there. It was always there.
You know better, Deb, a voice inside of me said. This isn’t over just because chemo is over. Your fear is real and valid. It’s just part of the deal. But you’re okay.
A few days later, while we were singing “Wheels on the Bus” in Matthew’s music class, my phone rang.
“Hi, Deb. It’s Dr. B’s office. We want to schedule your nipple surgery.”
“Oh, okay—I’m kind of in the middle of something. Can I call you back?”
After finishing music class, I bundled Matthew up in his brown leather bomber jacket, buckled him into his stroller, and reached for my phone. “Hi honey, Dr. B. called and wants to schedule my nipple surgery. I don’t know if I want to do it. I’m tired. I don’t want any more surgeries. What do you think?” I asked.
“It’s totally up to you,” he said. “I will go along with whatever you want.”
“I just want it to be over.” We decided to talk about it later that night and I made my way up Broadway.
As I was walking with Matthew, trying to clear my head of everything except the moment we were in, I passed CVS. Before I knew it, I pushed the stroller through the automatic doors. I perused the colors on the wall and began to think about nipples. What’s so important about nipples anyway? Are they even attractive? They’re kind of bumpy. I didn’t know. I thought about the beauty seminar I attended only a few months back. I remembered giving myself permission to feel pretty and the deeper meaning it served. Maybe that’s what this is, too? Of course I can live without nipples, but I want to move on. I want to feel good. I want to live my life to the fullest. I picked up a polish called Color Me Coral, paid the cashier, and headed home.
I’d made my decision. That night, I told Andrew the day’s details, ranked in order of importance: (1) Matthew pulled himself up on the rim of the couch and started to cruise for the first time! (2) Music class was a blast, and (3) Nipple surgery is scheduled for next Tuesday.
My two other breast surgeries were performed in the hospital, but Dr. B was going to work his nipple magic in his office.
When we arrived he went over the game plan. “Remember, this surgery is purely superficial. I will remove a piece of skin from below your belly button. It will take approximately thirty minutes to create the nipples, and then I will attach them. Even though this isn’t general anesthesia, you will be totally out. Recovery is a cinch compared to what you’ve been through. This is it. Last one.”
I stood at the elevator banks wearing a medical gown and turned to Andrew.
“Wow. I’m standing up, walking into the OR. This is so civilized.” I took a deep breath. “I’ll see you in an hour. I love you.”
“I love you,” he said. “Go get ’em.”
The doors opened, and Dr. B’s beautifully designed office, filled with custom seating areas and hand-painted wall coverings, had transformed into a fully equipped operating room. The bright lights, trays of instruments, leg warmers, IV poles, and machines clicking and beeping were all present. Dr. B and his anesthesiologist walked in and started the IV. Here we go. “Good night,” I said with a smile.
After what seemed like a catnap, I awoke to thick bandages over each nipple and a line of stitches on my stomach from where Dr. B had gathered the necessary material. “It went really well. You look great. You can take off the bandages in seventy-two hours—no showers until then.” I got dressed by myself, walked upstairs, no wheelchair or drains, and opened the door to the waiting room. Andrew looked up from his paper and immediately shot out of his seat. “You’re done?” he asked, surprised.
“Yep—let’s go!”
“I’ll get the car,” he said.
“That’s okay. It’s only a block away. I want to walk with you.”
I was so happy that I had endured this final step of reconstruction. I slept off a good part of the first forty-eight hours, sweating out the narcotics. I get to see them tomorrow. What will they look like? What did my nipples look like before? I never posed nude or starred in a homemade sex video, so I didn’t have documentation of my old nipples. Finally, seventy-two hours passed. During Matthew’s morning nap, I slowly peeled off each strip of tape that held the bandages in place. I removed the thick mound of gauze. I was in awe. Although they looked like they’d recently survived a knife fight, I could see the authenticity beneath. They were bumpy and round, with rough edges, and the cutest little nipple in the middle. You guys are adorable! I covered my hands with anti-bacterial gel and touched them. It was strange since I didn’t have sensation from the inside but my fingers could experience every centimeter. They were truly my cherries on top.