#nofilter

What kind of moron schedules an appointment with a new specialist while recovering from yet another revision to breast reconstruction? Probably the same moron who thinks yet another revision is no big whoop and expects recovery to be swift. Will I never learn??? And the post-surgery antibiotics are wreaking their usual havoc and using black magic to cause me — a non-meat-eater and pet-pig owner — to crave ham. Ham. Of all things.

Dr E, the neurologist I saw yesterday for the mystery neuropathy I’ve been having in my hands, offices in the medical plaza adjoining the hospital to which I was admitted in early June 2010 for the nefarious post-mastectomy infection. A small PTSD episode may or may not have occurred inside that plaza at 8:30 a.m. yesterday, in which I stepped on to the wrong elevator en route to Dr E’s office and found myself not in the plaza but on the 9th floor of the hospital. I was transfixed and rooted in place, knowing I was not in the right spot but temporarily unable to grind the right gears and get out of there. I stood there, sweating profusely and shivering alarmingly near a giant window overlooking the freeway that leads from the hospital back to my home, in the Land of Sugar. The dregs of a rainy-day morning rush hour in Houston creeped along that freeway as I watched it, momentarily paralyzed with the searing memory of looking out that window on day 6 or 7 of that hellish hospitalization. My kids had just finished their second- and fifth-grade years of school; I had turned 41 just a week before that hellish hospitalization. Summer glistened ahead of us as I began a protracted and ugly battle against a rare and nasty infection following a cruel and unexpected cancer diagnosis. If someone had predicted that nearly 5 years later I would be paralyzed simply by being in that same hospital, I would have rolled my eyes and scoffed at that lame-0 idea. Suffice to say, no eye-rolling or scoffing occurred.

All these years later,  just being in that same hospital brought it all back. It took a few moments to snap out of it and load my shattered self back into the elevator to retrace my steps into the medical plaza and away from the hospital. Why was I catapulted back to that unpleasant and unwelcome era in this long, ugly cancer “journey?” I’ve no idea. No matter, I suppose, as the take-away is that after many hours and a full sleep later, I’m still reeling.
Arriving in the neurologist’s office, I dutifully handed over my new patient paperwork and was briskly admitted into an exam room. I read most of this article in Men’s Journal about when to say no to your doctor. Ironic. When Dr E walked into the room, I joked about that irony and was met with stone-faced silence. Perhaps the newest doc in my tribe doesn’t find me, or that article, very funny. I briefly considered ripping out the article, to reread it later and decide if it was indeed ironic, but then remembered I brought a small purse and would have to fold the ripped-out article. Not worth it.
Within mere minutes of meeting me, Dr E proclaimed that I have no filter (’tis true, although I thought I was on my best behavior). So he doesn’t get my humor (wouldn’t be the first man to find himself in that situation), and I briefly and un-filteredly considered whether he could tell I was contemplating lifting his magazine article. No time to explore that, though, because he asked if I’ve been evaluated for ADD, then moved on to ask a series of pointed, unpleasant questions about the exact nature of and appearance of the neuropathy (e.g., when was the exact moment I recall experiencing neuropathy? How would I know — I have ADD.) He delved into my complicated, checkered medical history. After a thorough scouring of my history and timeline of current symptoms, he vowed to get to the bottom of my problem. He asked if I could submit to a series of tests in an hour and directed me to the coffee shop in the lobby. I filtered myself by just listening instead of telling him I know exactly where the coffee shop is and why I possess that knowledge. How ya like my filter now???
Forty-five minutes later, I returned to his office and was shown into a small, airless room and instructed on how to take a computerized test to gauge my attention span. I can’t recall the exact acronym of this “continuous performance tests” (hellooooo, I have ADD, remember??) but the point is a very simple response (in this case, clicking a button) is required after a simple stimulus (in this case, a rapid-fire series of black rectangles appeared on the computer screen in random order. Each rectangle had a small white square in it; sometimes the white square appeared in the top of the black rectangle, and other times it appeared in the bottom of the black square. Each time it appeared in the top, I clicked the button). This went on for 20 minutes. For 20 minutes. For 20 interminable minutes, my eyes watered and blurred. My thumb clicked the button. I slumped and straightened in the seat. I wrote and re-wrote a blog post, then promptly forgot what it contained.
squirrelI sweated and cursed the small, airless room. I wondered how much time had elapsed. I wondered if clicking that button was contributing to the neuropathy in my hands. I rebelled against the test directions to avoid looking for a pattern and guessing when to click the button. I composed a grocery list. I fashioned a crude fan from a piece of paper to stir the hot, stale air, not once taking my eyes off that blasted screen. I thought about what to serve my kids for dinner that constituted a nutritious meal yet required little or no work from me. I vowed to ace that test, but grew bored of and distracted from it post haste. Hence the no filter.
My 20-minute penance done, I entered the next level of hell: the shock test, aka the nerve conduction velocity test. Yuk. I’ve endured some pretty yukky medical procedures in my day, but this one was yukky in its own special, unique way. Long story short, the nerves must be toasty warm to be shocked and measured, so I had to get under an electric blanket while wearing a paper gown. I had to keep my feet covered, which is one of my versions of personal hell, and I suppose Dr E would categorize that revelation as further evidence of me having no filter. Fine, that’s fine. I don’t like my feet covered. And I don’t like being under an electric blanket preparing to have my nerves shocked. Whatev. Personally, I believe filters are way, way overrated.
After I told the the nurse that putting a menopausal woman under an electric blanket is seriously not cool, she hooked up electrodes to my fingers, palm, wrist, forearm, bicep, and neck and shocked me repeatedly. Think of hitting your “funny bone” again and again while sweating under an electric blanket with a moist paper gown stuck to you and your feet protesting the claustrophobic conditions, and you are there. You get the gist. Except it’s not just your “funny bone” that smarts from the shock; it’s more of a full-body twitch. When the larger nerves were to be shocked, the nurse instructed me to take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Nothing good ever follows being told to take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Nothing. I defy anyone to find anything good. With those deep breaths, I wanted to be like this:

googleimages.com

googleimages.com

But instead, I was like this (pardon the profanity; it’s fitting and again, another example of me having no filter):

googleimages.com

googleimages.com

Shock after shock. And I submitted to this test willingly and within my right mind??? One or two shocks is doable. But nearly an hour of it, on both sides of the body? Filter this, people. I kept thinking, at least there are no needles involved.
Once the shocking was over, the nurse said to relax and wait for the doctor, but please stay covered up because he had one more test to administer. I honestly thought about shucking the blanket off, peeling the sodden paper gown from my stanky body, and getting the hell outta there before Dr E had a chance to reappear. However, I was a bit curious about how I did on that computer test, so I stuck around.
Remember the foolish, filterless goofball who thought, at least there are no needles involved? Guess who ended up with a needle stuck in a nerve ranging from fingertip to neck on both sides of her body? Yep. At that point, I was exhausted, my eyes hurt, my body pinged from having been shocked, and my dignity had long left the building.
Dr E pronounced me to have been through the proverbial wringer, both that day and for the last several years. He described the extensive nerve damage I have to both wrists, as well as a lingering muscular issue in my right shoulder. He gave me solutions, both pharmaceutical and holistic. He talked a lot about genetics and its role in our ongoing health, and asked me to come back in two weeks. I agreed, as long as there were no shocks involved. I wanted to ask him to commit to that in writing, via a binding contract, but was trying to use my filter.

A terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day

To quote from Alexander, the hero of Judith Viorst’s timeless children’s book, today was a “terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.” Alexander-and-the-No-Good-image

Actually, truth be told, it’s been a terrible, horrible, no good very bad month. It’s been a death-by-a-million-paper-cuts month.

I didn’t wake up with gum in my hair or miss out on dessert at lunch like poor Alexander did. But it’s still been a THNGVB day.

This is dangerous territory. As a cancer “survivor” I should be grateful. I should be happy. I should be thankful to be alive and (more or less) in one piece.

To which I say, screw the “shoulds.”

Of course I’m grateful to have “survived” cancer (and of course I recognize that the “surviving” only hold true until the day in any given month in any given year that the cancer comes back. Which it does for some 40 percent of women diagnosed with early-stage, favorable breast cancer). I am happy that I’m not currently metastatic. I am thankful to be alive. None of this, however, cancels out the rest of the yucky stuff involved, and sometimes a girl’s gotta vent.

Today was the tipping point of my THNGVB month. A punctured tire this morning turned today’s to-do list into a scrap in the recycle bin. A cut on my leg from two weeks ago has become red, hot, painful, and pussed instead of healed. My attempts to slather it in Neosporin and cover it with a band-aid didn’t cut it (heh heh) so I’m now back in antibiotic hell. Cue the nausea, thrush, and terrible taste in my mouth, which join the dizziness, joint pain, neuropathy, fatigue, mental fog, muscle weakness, hot flashes, and sweating. Sheesh. I mean, sheesh.

I’ve been blaming this fresh hell on Aromasin, the latest aromatase inhibitor I’ve been taking to stave off a recurrence of my cancer and (theoretically) live a longer life. However, I’ve had the luxury of being off the dreaded Aromasin for a two-week period in advance of and following surgery. Yes, another surgery. Don’t be jealous. Perhaps it takes more than a two-week window to rid oneself of the nastiness Aromasin brings. Perhaps I’m just a whiner. Either way, I don’t feel good and I firmly believe that in some cases, the cure is worse than the disease.

Attempts to ameliorate any one of these symptoms are for naught. Taking a probiotic. Counting my blessings. Backing off of the intensity of my workouts. Viewing photos of baby donkeys and Golden Retriever puppies. Lighting a yummy-smelling candle. Drinking more water. Making an appointment with a neurologist. Doing a good deed for a friend in need. Nothing is helping. Nada. Nuttin.

In my most recent attempt to carve out a moment of not-hell, I read this quote in the current edition of Oprah’s magazine:

In our day-to-day lives, it’s easy to become overwhelmed with responsibilities and challenges. Having enough time to give to everybody who needs you and have any left for yourself is a constant struggle. But in the long run, designing space for you is the only way you can survive without burnout and resentment. There is no life without a spiritual life, and spirituality is like a muscle. It must be fueled. Fuel yourself with beauty, inspiration, music, laughter, nature, a hot soaking bath, silence. Whatever form it takes for you. Know this for sure: You have more to give when your own tank is full.

Dammit, Oprah! I’m trying. I’m trying to design space for me and to fuel myself. But what does one do when nothing is working?

I suppose I’ll have to take a page from Alexander’s book and move to Australia. alexander-childrens book-disney

 

 

 

 


Cheers to GCD!

Today is my favorite day of the year. No, it’s not my birthday — it’s Global Champagne Day. Which might as well be my birthday. It’s one good thing — perhaps the only good thing — about the month of October, and I plan to celebrate. images

Some people consider December 31st to be GCD; however, they are wrong. December 31st is New Year’s Eve, and while lots of champagne is consumed on that day every year, champagne does not share the limelight with the last day of the year, with the giant mirrored ball dropping, or any such nonsense. Champagne stands on its own. Sheesh, the fact that it’s Global Champagne Day proves that. It’s not even in the same league as National Shrimp Day or National Lost Sock day.

One of my friends at the gym heard me talking about GCD and asked — in all sincerity — if I made it up. As if I would fabricate a global movement just to have an excuse to drink champagne. As if I need a reason. Sheesh.

In honor of my favorite beverage on my favorite day of the year, here are some of my favorite quotes. I’d love to find bigger images of these quotes (all from googleimages.com) but am in too big of a hurry to pop a cork. Perhaps there is a way to edit the sizes right here on my computer screen, but again…time’s a wasting and I gotta get to pouring.images-3

I gotta work on that “start with a smile part.” The “finish with champagne” part — I got it covered.
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I couldn’t agree more with Napoleon. And that guy knew a thing or two about defeat. Drink up, people.
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It makes no matter if one is happy, sad, alone, with others, thirsty or sated. Champagne is just right for every occasion. Promise.
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I like to drink water along with my champagne, so I can keep drinking the bubbles without fear of waking up with a headache. It’s called The Water Course, and anyone who has raised a glass with me knows I swear by that practice. A little tip from me to you. You’re welcome. original_let-s-dance-champagne-quote-printDance away, folks. Just don’t spill your champagne. 

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I have this Bette Davis quote framed and hanging in my bathroom, where I see it every day. Most of the times I see it, it makes me thirsty. images-4

I have no clue who Cat Deeley is, but he or she is wise. Very wise.

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Allow me to reiterate: champagne is just right for any occasion.


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Preach on, Mark Twain. Preach on.

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Oh, Winston Churchill! Why oh why didn’t anyone listen to you and institute a free champagne policy?

I don’t care what the question is, images-1

Seriously. It does not matter what the question is. I know the answer. f710d339b40dae8bcdf750dd4615bc3cDon’t let this happen to you.

Cheers, y’all!


An appointment and some art

Lovely surprises lurk around every corner.

Sounds like a corny message from a fortune cookie, right? Certainly not what you expect from this little blog, which is typically full of snark. Allow me, if you will, to deviate from the gnashing of teeth, shaking of fists, and renting of garments usually contained within this site.

I had an appointment at the med center this morning to have my wonky thyroid checked out. I love the fact that I live in a city that is home to the world’s largest medical center and that world-class care is available to me.tmc_map

Some fun facts about the med center:

  • some 160,000 people visit TMC every day
  • that equates to 7.2 million people a year (more than the populations of Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Houston combined)
  • 106,000 people work at the med center
  • 50,000 people are students at TMC
  • TMC is made up of 21 different hospitals, 13 support organizations, 8 academic and research institutions, 6 nursing programs, 3 public health organizations, 3 medical schools, 2 universities, 2 pharmacy schools, and a dental school
  • this beast of an institution is spread across nearly 1.5 square miles, and the 18 miles of public and private streets surrounding it would take the average person 6 hours to walk in its entirety
  • the highest concentration of life-sciences professionals in the country live near and work at TMC
  • TMC contains 7,000 patient beds; if stacked up, the beds would stretch 1.65 miles or 7 times the height of the Empire State Building
  • a baby is delivered every 3 minutes at TMC
  • a surgery is performed every 3 minutes

Indeed, everything is bigger in Texas.

Ok, so being the most kick-ass med center isn’t enough. TMC also throws up some pretty nice artwork–hence the lovely surprise. This morning while hoofing it from the endocrinologist’s office to the radiology department (a portion of the 1.5 square miles mentioned above) for an ultrasound, I passed some unusual artwork and stepped in for a closer look. Picasso said, “The purpose of art is washing the dust of our daily life off our souls,” and I was all for giving my soul a little spit-shine.

The minimalist approach of the first piece caught my eye, with its interesting color combination and deft brushwork. The combination of long, thin brushstrokes and fat, wide ones hold a lot of appeal. IMG_3281

The second piece is much busier and conveys a very different energy. The squiggles suggest movement and a fast pace, and the composition suggests the artist has a lot to say and says it quickly.

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Painting number 3 is a bit more purposeful and controlled. The brushstrokes suggest a certain scale to me, and my first instinct is big. Or perhaps the suggestion of large size comes from the predominance of orange, which to me is a color that speaks out loud.

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Back to a minimalist style for the fourth piece. The ratio of color to white space is quite different from the other pieces. While the pieces share a similar color scheme, they are vastly different.

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The fifth painting could have been done by the same artist as painting number 4, with its similar colors and use of white space. The restraint that comes from the white space impresses me, as my instinct would be to cover a canvas with as much color as possible. Restraint has never come naturally to me. IMG_3290

Hmmmm. Very intriguing. I’m no art critic, but I like what I see, and I definitely like these pieces.

Would you believe that each piece was painted by a resident of the Houston Zoo?

The first piece was painted by Shanti, an Asian elephant who, according to her artist bio, is pretty serious about her craft. She dips her paintbrush into sand to give her paintings a mixed-media effect, and unlike the other elephant artists, she curls her trunk around the brush rather than holding it with the “finger” at the end of her trunk. She employs a keen concentration while painting and then likes to unwind by horsing around in the pool (she’s known for swimming in circles to make waves while the other members of her herd are in the pool).

The “busy” feel of painting number 2 can likely be attributed to its artist: an otter named Wednesday. This playful painter likes to walk through a puddle of paint and then step onto her canvas, hence the stippled look of the predominant green paint. She has been known to take a break from painting to go for a swim, then return to her canvas and let her wet feet create a true watercolor. Her motto: Will paint for fish.

The purposeful, controlled painting number 3 belongs to another Asian elephant named Methai. Before becoming a painter, Methai was a circus performer in Thailand. She’s a musician as well as an artist and can play several instruments, including the harmonica. Methai is the most prolific elephant artist at the zoo, and like Shanti, she too is all business when she paints: she is known to squint her eyes in concentration.

Painting number 4 was done by Harry, a White-faced Saki monkey. He’s a tree-dweller from the South American rainforest who mastered the art of painting quickly. He works fast, often completing his masterpieces in mere minutes, and tends to be pretty laid-back, although rumor has it he sometimes gets a bit frenetic about his work and ends up with paint all over him once he leaves the studio.

Credit for the last painting on exhibit at TMC goes to Cali the sea lion. The smart, playful sea lions are a crowd favorite at the Houston Zoo, and when Cali isn’t putting on a show or hunting for fishy treats, she’s churning out paintings like the one on display at TMC. She holds a paintbrush in her mouth to create her masterpieces, then hops back into the pool to frolic with her buddies.

Nietzsche said “The essence of all beautiful art, all great art, is gratitude.” After seeing this beautiful art, this great art, I’m grateful for Shanti, Wednesday, Mathai, Harry, and Cali.

 

 


Drive-by doctoring

Coming soon to a hospital or surgery center near you: drive-by doctoring.

It’s the latest trend in chicanery, in which some health-care workers (namely high-dollar specialists) insert themselves into a case in order to jack up their revenue.

googleimages.com

googleimages.com

It’s come to light thanks to this article in The New York Times. Here’s the long-story-short: “In an increasingly common practice that some medical experts call drive-by doctoring, assistants, consultants and other hospital employees are charging patients or their insurers hefty fees. They may be called in when the need for them is questionable. And patients usually do not realize they have been involved or are charging until the bill arrives.”

Here’s how it typically works: you have a medical problem, say breast cancer, that needs to be fixed. You see a specialist and/or a surgeon and do your research. You might even check with your health-insurance provider to ensure that your doctor and procedure are covered. Your doctor’s office also ascertains pre-approval and pre-certification for your surgery. You do your due diligence and assume all your ducks are in a row. Meanwhile. you are consumed with getting your life in order before your surgery date; in my case, in the 2 weeks between being diagnosed with stage II invasive breast cancer at the age of 40 and undergoing a bilateral mastectomy, I stocked the house with groceries and washed every item of clothing in the house; I arranged for rides to & from school and extracurricular activities for my two elementary-school-aged children; I submitted myself to a battery of tests and scans in a series of appointments that constituted a part-time job; I met with my kids’ teachers and guidance counselor to inform them of what was going on at home; I answered phone calls and emails from concerned friends and family and endeavored to keep my people informed of my situation; and I lay awake at night, despite my exhaustion, wondering what the hell my very uncertain future held in store for me.

I did not, however, think to ask if the army of health-care providers and the plethora of services my cancer required were all in-network. I was rather busy wrapping my head around my diagnosis and ensuring that I did everything I needed to do, for myself and for my family. The last thing on my mind was whether I’d get screwed by out-of-network providers charging 20 to 40 times the going rate.

Surprise! Here’s a huge bill for services you neither requested nor consented to, and not paying will ensure sleepless nights, stressful budgeting sessions, and  harassment by collection agencies.

Luckily, I had great health insurance at the time I “waged war” on my cancer. Luckily, I happen to live in the epicenter of research and healthcare institutions; my city has some of the best medical schools and the best cancer-care facilities, which correlates to an abundance of first-class docs and hospitals. Luckily, I did not fall prey to drive-by doctoring during my cancer “journey,” but am nonetheless considering this a cautionary tale.

In the NYT article, a man named Peter Drier found himself recovering from back surgery and facing a $117,000 bill from an “assistant surgeon” he never met. Drier did his homework and researched his health-insurance coverage before his surgery, but still found himself a victim of drive-by doctoring.

Patients have their hands full before their surgeries, and some providers are looking to shore up revenue that is increasingly reduced by economics. It’s the perfect storm. Furthermore, hospitals that join an insurance network are not required to provide in-network doctors or services. New York has enacted legislation to protect consumers from drive-by doctoring; let’s hope other states follow. Until then, it’s buyer beware.


Hero dogs

Today, on the 13th anniversary of the terrorist attacks, I’m thinking of the dogs who assisted in the search & rescue at Ground Zero in New York City. Some heroes have 4 legs. 

Photographer Charlotte Dumas has profiled many of those 4-legged  heroes in her book RetrievedIt’s on my wish list.

One of the dogs in Retrieved is Bretagne (pronounced Brittany), a Golden Retriever who is reported to be the only surviving rescue dog from the Twin Towers disaster (one other dog, a springer spaniel named Morgan who worked at the Fresh Kills site at Staten Island, is still alive). A Golden Retriever is also on my wish list, BTW.

newyorkpost.com

newyorkpost.com

Bretagne was trained in and lives in a suburb near mine in the great state of Texas. Her very first assignment was search & rescue at Ground Zero. She was just 2 years old when she was deployed, along with her handler Denise Corliss.

newyorkpost.com

The absence of any human survivors at Ground Zero was unimaginably difficult for everyone involved in the recovery effort — including the dogs. Despite the fruitless search, the dogs worked tirelessly among the perilous conditions that included broken glass, twisted metal, and hazardous emissions. The human searchers were protected by heavy gloves, boots, and masks; the dogs, however, relied on their bare paws for balance, their exposed claws for traction, and their sensitive noses for any whiff of human remains.

newyorkpost.com

newyorkpost.com

Bretagne spent 2 weeks working 12-hour shifts in the dangerous conditions. Her handler recalls that on her very first search, Bretagne slipped on a metal beam that was wet from the fire hoses that still doused the smoldering wreckage. Corliss was nervous, but said that Bretagne “pulled herself  back up onto the beam with her front paws and continuing to sniff intently as if nothing had happened.”

Another rescue dog perseveres among dangerous conditions

Another rescue dog perseveres among dangerous conditions

Corliss recalls how Bretagne seemed to make a point of putting herself in front of weary first responders. Several times, Bretagne left Corliss’ side to greet shell-shocked firefighters. Corliss gave the command for Bretagne to come back, sit and stay, but was rebuked. Corliss was shocked that the usually well behaved dog disobeyed: “I was surprised that she wasn’t listening to me, but she really wasn’t — it was like she was flipping me the paw.”

One of the veterinarians who looked after the search & rescue dogs at Ground Zero founded the Penn Vet Working Dog Center. Dr Cindy Otto realized that the dogs working at Ground Zero supplied much more than search & rescue or recovery: they provided great comfort to the first responders. She says, “You’d see firefighters sitting there, unanimated, stone-faced, no emotion, and then they’d see a dog and break out into a smile. Those dogs brought the power of hope. They removed the gloom for just an instant — and that was huge because it was a pretty dismal place to be.”

Animal Planet

Animal Planet

At the Penn Vet Working Dog Center, the puppies in training are named after the dogs who worked Ground Zero. Bretagne met her namesake, who now lives with a man who has Type 1 diabetes. Bretagne 2 alerts her new master if his blood-sugar levels get out of whack.

newyorkpost.com

newyorkpost.com

Cheers to Bretagne and the next generation of  4-legged heroes. May your treats be plentiful and your belly rubs never-ending.


It’s not quite like that

Joanna Montgomery gets it. She really gets it. It’s a common misconception, yet something that those of us who’ve faced it head-on know. We know because we learn the hard way. Despite the Pollyanna snow job by pink-ribbon celebs like Giuliana Rancic and Amy Robach, having a mastectomy does not mean you get new boobs. Not even close. In this article, Montgomery explains it, succinctly and completely.

“There’s a huge misconception among the general populous about what it means to have one’s breasts removed and replaced with artificial ones (if they are replaced at all). When speaking about my upcoming surgery, I had many well-meaning people say things like, ‘Well at least you get new boobs!’ and, ‘Your husband must be so excited… has he picked ‘em out yet?’ Yeah, well, it’s not quite like that. Not at all, in fact.”

Yeah, it’s not at all like that.

Here’s how it really is, as Montgomery so eloquently explains: “It seems that those not in the know tend to equate post-mastectomy reconstructed breasts with augmented breasts or ‘boob jobs.’ Nothing could be further from the truth. You see, augmented breasts are actually real live breasts with nipples and healthy breast tissue behind which silicone or saline implants have been placed, either under or above the muscle, thereby pushing them up and out. If augmented breasts didn’t look damn good, breast augmentation surgeries would not be so, ahem, popular. So even though augmented boobs are often called ‘fake boobs,’ they’re really not. I, on the other hand, do have fake boobs (or ‘foobs,’ as I have become prone to calling them).”

I have foobs, too. Not implants, but foobs made from my own flesh and tissue carved from my belly via a 17-inch-long incision.

Like Montgomery, I am thankful to have had skilled surgeons at the helm of my reconstruction, and I’m thankful to have good health insurance (although the out-of-pocket expenses are still hefty). Sometimes honesty about our foobs is interpreted as being ungrateful. Montgomery says, “those of us who either opted to have mastectomies as a preventative measure, or had mastectomies as a life-saving measure, aren’t excited about our ‘new boobs.’ In truth, we’ll never be the same. We see ourselves differently now when we look in the mirror, because we are different, inside as well as outside.”

 

 


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