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The 200th Post

As the title says, this is the 200th installment of BoobCast. Today I am writing about you, dear reader. Today’s installment is all about the support and the stories that people have shared with me since I first started this blog on Oct. 11, 2008.

When I first started writing this, I was also fairly active on a website called All About Plastic Surgery (http://www.allaboutplasticsurgery.com). When I posted what had happened to me it didn’t take long before I was inundated by questions about various aspects of the surgery. You can find that entry here: http://boobcast.net/2008/10/14/questions/ People expressed a great deal of concern about how well I had checked out the surgeon, what indications I might have had and what legal recourse I might have taken. During that period so many people gave their support and I am grateful for it. So my thanks goes out to the women of the All About Plastic Surgery forum. They were the ones who inspired the idea for BoobCast.

Now you’re probably asking yourself, “Gee Maria, why do you call it BoobCast? Were they wrapped in plaster or something at one point?”

No, dear reader. There are reasons this site is called BoobCast.  In 2007 the podcasting community lost a precious member by the name of Joe Murphy. He died of a vicious type of cancer that took him quickly. During his medical treatments he talked in vivid detail about what was going on, the testing and all of it. His strength inspired me. I wanted to be as strong and as brave as Joe Murphy. So I planned to podcast what was going on with my breast necrosis. The name of that podcast was going to be BoobCast.

I never met Joe but his life inspired me. It just turns out that I’m not that strong or that brave. To honor that bravery I have kept the name.

I also owe thanks to a very dear friend, Tee Morris. When I was trying to find the strength to create BoobCast, He was there for me. He gave me mental and emotional support by letting me know that I *could* do it. I’m sorry I disapointed you Tee but want to thank you for being a friend when I needed one.

In the time I’ve been writing BoobCast I have had people email me directly for advice. Of course, after reading the email, my advice was always “Contact your PS (plastic surgeon) and ask for [fill-in-the-blank]. Whether it was about bruising, skin texture or pain, I advised talking to their doctor. If they couldn’t get a decent answer from that doctor, talk to another one.

The one that really broke my heart was the husband of a woman who, a few days previous the email,  had the same procedure I had. According to her husband, the pain pills her PS had given her weren’t doing much and she was in constant pain. She couldn’t eat or sleep and she was suffering. I told her husband to call her PS immediately and insist on different pain meds and not take NO for an answer. i explained that, right now it was his job to advocate for his wife since she couldn’t do it herself.

A couple days later I got an email from him saying that her PS had changed her meds and she was doing MUCH better. It’s emails like those that made BoobCast well worth the emotional pain of writing those early posts.

I also want to thank everyone who talked to me about BoobCast at DragonCon last year. Being told in person that I’m making a difference means the world to me. Thank you for taking the time to talk to me.

Finally, my thanks to Carol Montoya, Lolly Daskal and the Woman At Denny’s. I promise that once I’ve had nipple reconstruction and recuperate from that, I WILL write the book. The foundation is in the works already.

My thanks to you all for reading, commenting and talking to me. Here’s to another 200!

 
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Posted by on January 18, 2010 in anchor breast lift, Anxiety, barter, boob job, Bra Fitting, bra sizes, Bras, breast, breast cancer, breast health, breast implants, breast lift, breast reconstruction, breast size, breast volume, Cash fees, checkup, chemotherapy chemical, clogged surgical drains, communication, complications, compression bra, compression dressing, cortisone, cosmetic surgery, cryotherapy, debreiding, debridement, deformity, dehiscence, Depression, Drain, Drugs, emotional healing, emotional scars, Excise, excise fluid, fear, Flashbacks, flourouracil, Fluid, granular tissue, granulation tissue, Healing, Hospital, Hospital fees, Hosptial Costs, implants, Incisions, Infection, Insurance, interferon, Invisibility, keloid, keloid scars, laser, Latissimus flap, latissimus flap reconstruction, malpractice, mammogram, mastopexy, Medical, Medical Insurance, memory, Nausea, necrosis, negligence, Nipple prosthetics, Nipple reconstruction, Nipples, Pain, Pain Management, plastic surgeon, plastic surgery, Plastic Surgery Disaster, podcast, Post surgical depression, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Prescription Drug Addiction, Prosthetics, PTSD, radiation, Reconstruction, Recovery, Scars, Seroma, serous fluid, Sex, silicone sheets, situational depression, Sleep, slow healing, suicide, Surgery, Surgical complications, Surgical drains, Surgical Fees, Ta Ta Tuesday, Uncategorized, V.A.C. machine, Vacuum assisted wound closure, wet to dry bandages, wheelchair

 

Truth To Tell

Earlier I was reading through the entries from right before and right after my latissimus flap reconstruction in April of last year. I couldn’t help but notice the typos in some of those entries. I considered for a few minutes correcting those typos. Then I realized that the typos are actually a part of my story.

They are a visual example of the effects of the medication I was on. Since people are so visually attuned, I feel that it’s best if I leave it there so that people can not only read but also see the level of FUBAR I was then.

Yes I know that “spelling errors” look bad on a blog. I’m keeping those particular mess ups though and proper spelling be damned.

 

What Is The Sound Velcro Makes?

This is going to be a slightly more graphic than usual post about wet to dry dressings and what necrosis looks like as it develops. So those without strong stomachs are cautioned. I will do my best to inject humor into this as I go. Humor and my support system are really the only way I survived this in the first place.

That, and I rediscovered the analytical part of myself. I mentally separated myself from the situation at hand. I used the phrase “THE breasts” as opposed to “MY breasts” and I never looked at myself in the mirror. So I dissociated to some extent while I was changing the wet to dry bandages.

Initially I didn’t really understand HOW wet the gauze was supposed to be. I was told by the nurse that the gauze should be damp. *I* thought that meant it should be dripping just a little bit. After a couple days I noticed there was little to no progress with the wet to drys. Progress would mean the removal of dead tissue. I was pulling off the occasional fleck here and there but nothing meaningful.

Let me explain a bit more about wet to drys. Once the gauze has been dampened in sterile saline solution, it is laid flat in one or two layers over the area to be debrided. It is molded to the body part so when it dries it is a bit like plaster. A successful pull makes a soft sound akin to velcro being pulled from its fuzzy moorings.

When I went back in for the next check up a couple days later the HiQ complained that there was not enough progress. I explained what I had done and was given the moisture level corrections. It seems that instead of dripping slightly, the gauze should be just slightly damp. Previous to this I had done what is called “packing” where the area is kept moist with wet salined gauze. Thus my confusion, I suppose. We’ll go in to packing later when things have gotten REALLY bad.

Once I had been given better information I was sent home for a couple more days. I was also told that I should only be changing the wet to drys one to two times a day. I HAD been changing them 3-4 times because that was what I had done when I was packing. No one told me to do anything different as far as changing went. Isn’t it amazing how nothing changes when there is no communication?

With the new changes I was getting more dead tissue off. When I pulled off the dried gauze it was definitely pulling away the blackened tissue. The HiQ had me do that for about a week and a half. In that time I still forbade Ken to come in during bandage changes and showering. No one should have to be exposed to that.

I had started crying at least every other day at this point and I was really depressed for obvious reasons. Pulling bits of dead flesh off your own body tends to do that. I was angry because I couldn’t get a straight answer out of the HiQ. The man had all the bedside manner of Dr. Mengele. Which was pretty evident by the “don’t scream” comment when he was sewing cadaver skin onto me and telling me that it was an extremely expensive treatment.

Really folks that all I can manage for today. Come back tomorrow and I’ll tell you the Valium story.

 

Persistent Situational Depression

April 16th was a very good day. Aside from the morphine I was fortunate enough to get my breasts back. Not the originals, of course.  These are the new and improved version. In JumboVision.

Yet it has taken me until today to see even more than a glimpse of my old self. I’ve been going through the motions of living distracting myself with new projects (http://www.fledgelingskeptic.wordpress.com) and just getting through the day-to-day aspects of living.

This afternoon I saw, for just a little while, that adventurous me. This is the part of me that takes unrestrained joy in just throwing a handful of clothes in a bag, getting in the car and driving just to see where we end up.  If I had my way I wouldn’t be writing this entry right now. I’d be packing and getting ready to leave for who knows where.

Sadly, I don’t get to have my way. So that’s a bit depressing. This is the first time in years that I’ve seen that side of myself and it has been denied. Hubby would rather make plans for the weekend and stick with those.

While I’m depressed that I’m not going to be able to express that long-buried part of myself, I am so very happy to see that it still exists. I really thought it had long since died off. No more spontaneity. Ever.

I think that I had just gone through so much for so long that I got stuck in a situation-based depressive state. Now, almost six months after reconstruction, I’m finally returning to my old self.

I think it’s probably going to take a little while longer. I still have quite a bit of emotional recovering to do. I’m looking forward to the time that I don’t get sad during the first few weeks of October. I know that time will come. I just have to get to that point.

As people keep telling me, healing takes time. It’s not just the physical body that needs to recover. It’s everything else; the mental and emotional as well. It’s just a matter of time.

 

Things They Don’t Tell You

As I continue to heal I figure things out. The latest is the reason my chest ached for longer than it could have. Keep in mind before the initial surgery I was a B+/C- cup. Little boobies…by comparison anyway.

I had heard about back pain caused by larger breasts but no one ever told me that they could ache and hurt just from their own weight. For quite a while after the surgery I wore shelf bras because they were so comfortable. Even after I was cleared to wear a bra, I still, for some time, preferred to wear the shelf bras.

BUT when I did, there were times when my cleavage ached as though there was a small elephant standing on it. It wasn’t until I talked to my best friend about it. Her girls are almost the same size as mine and are completely natural so I know she has experience with this.

I’m just chalking this up to another thing they just don’t think to tell you.

 

Talk Dirty To Me

I admit it. I have a problem communicating my needs to my partner sometimes. I really don’t want to be a bother or a burden. I’ve been enough of that already in our 13 years of marriage.  When it comes to things for the house or for others, I have no problem talking to him about those needs or desires. When it comes to my personal needs, especially when it comes to my breasts, I just seize up and turn silent.

I had it stuck in my head that my breasts were ugly, wedge shaped flaps of skin and for my 40th birthday I wanted beautiful breasts. Honestly I’ve always wanted beautiful breasts since the bra fitter at the local store when I was 15 said I should have teardrop shaped breasts and I didn’t. Of course at that age ANY girl is looking in a broken mirror. But that right there is the first incident that set me up for this screaming disaster.

Ken said if I could find a way to have the surgery then I could. So I did. I found a surgeon who was part of our barter network. I checked him out and found that he had no record of misconduct and no pending or former law suits. To my eager mind, it was perfect. So I scheduled the surgery. If you haven’t read my blog before, please go back and read the first post to see what happened.

What is a barter network? It works like this: Say you have a product or service that someone pays you $100 for. You then take that $100 barter dollars and use it with anyone else in that barter network OR its affiliate networks. This surgeon was in that network. I’ve also gotten contact lenses, housekeeping, printing and LOTS of other stuff on barter. So it just made sense to me because I wanted pretty boobies THAT BADLY. I was obsessed.

Of course after the implants came out, the surgeon said he would perform the reconstruction for no additional cost. My bad decision had already cost us enough so I agreed to make Ken happy. I didn’t want to be any more of a burden than I had already been with all the appointments and V.A.C. bandage changes. As mangled and emotionally messed up as I was, I was convinced, even though Ken had never given any indication, that if I made any more waves, I could end up alone.

It took my best friend threatening to kill him while we were up in Atlanta for a visit (goodness knows she was serious) if he took me back to the guy who did this to me in the first place. I just wasn’t brave enough to tell him what I needed. I was just SO terrified that I felt frozen in place. I can only guess that he was going through his own mental issues because he never seemed to notice how terrified I was when we went to see the surgeon. But then, I used to act, so I put on the brave face of a good soldier and just dealt with it. After all, I was damaged goods in my mind. If I made too many waves, he would well within his rights just to leave. That’s how insecure, neurotic and emotional I was.

I would like to think that eventually I would have found the courage to tell my husband what I really needed but I honestly don’t know. I’m grateful that I had someone in my life who knew just by looking at me that there was something terribly wrong.

My point here is that if you’re going through a really difficult time like this, find a way to talk to your partner. If you have to write a letter or even seek out a therapist, do it. Communication with your partner is the most important tool in your tool box. In all likelihood, your partner feels just as helpless as you do.

 

Interview

While I’m at Dr. Elliott’s office I’m going to be doing an interview with him about the process.  I’m also going to be asking about the reality of complications, how frequently they really happen and what really causes them.  Once RoyallMedia.com has the new site up next month I’ll be posting that interview.  it will also be in one of the future episodes of BoobCast.

I’ll let you all know how it goes :-)

PS: After a brief conversation with Hubby, I feel a bit better.  I’m still overwhelmed, but as long as I remember that we’re taking it one step at a time, it’s easier to handle.

That, and remembering to take deep breaths when I start to freak out…  Also a major helper.  Oxygen: it’s a GOOD thing!

 
 
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