The Plastic Surgeon

 It’s New Year’s Eve day 2024, Caroline and I are breezing down I-93 South to Boston and listening to The Women by Kristen Hannah. We decided weeks ago that listening to an audiobook during our frequent drives to and from Boston would be fun. It is. Today’s appointment is with the plastic surgeon who will close up my right chest by grafting skin from one of my thighs after Dr. Fairweather does his portion of the lifesaving surgery I will endure on January 15, 2025.

As we get closer to Faulkner Hospital, it feels familiar. I’ve done this before and it’s not deja vu. As soon as we are parked and walk into the front entrance, I know for sure I’ve been here before. Buck had an appointment here for something related to his treatments 10 years ago. We easily find the office of Dr. Argarwal. The exam room is small, claustrophobic. There is one chair for Caroline and my only choice is to prop myself onto the end of the exam table and crinkling the paper liner in the process. 

I hate that I am here. Caroline is in the right corner of the little room with a view of my back. We are silent. Not much to say as we wait to meet this doctor who will do his best to put me back to some semblance of healing from the radical mastectomy. “Are you doing ok?” Caroline asks. “I’m ok,” I say without turning to face her. But I’m not okay. 

Sitting here in this moment makes the reality of my predicament real, more real than ever up to this point. In my usual struggle to truly tune in to what I’m feeling, I’m not sure at all. Is it fear of the suffering? Is it the thought of living the rest of my life without my right breast? How will I ever be able to look at that empty, scarred space in the mirror? How will I shower and feel hot water wash over that empty space, much less slather body wash over it? I swallow back tears. I tell myself to keep it together. I silently pray I will discover the secret to have what Thomas Keating describes as “permanent and continuous awareness of God’s presence” and my union with God be palpable. It feels so elusive, unattainable. 

After 7 or 8 minutes of waiting comes the knock on the door and Dr. Argarwal greets us. He reviews my history of breast cancer 15 years ago followed by radiation. He repeats his understanding of what Dr. Fairweather will do and what he will do. The wound on my leg from the grafting will take a while to heal. It will have to be covered for a few weeks in order to heal. Exposure to air is not good. Once he has stretched the skin that remains as much as possible he will overlay the layer of skin he takes from my thigh. The area will be covered and sealed and drainage tubes will be inserted. I will be in the hospital for 5 or 6 days and go home with the drainage tubes in tact. “Taking care of them is very straightforward,” he says. My eyes begin to tear up. I manage to keep it together but I know Dr. Argarwal has seen it. He lingers with us waiting for any questions we haven’t asked.

“When will I be able to get fitted for a prosthetic breast and bra?” I ask. He tells me not for at least six months. “We don’t want any pressure on that area until it is completely healed.” I forget to ask if that means I will have to go braless the whole time. I will know soon enough. It’s difficult to imagine no support for my heavy left breast. I try to imagine how I will get back to my life, go out in public, go to church, be with people and feel so lopsided and self conscious. How will I dress to disguise the flatness of my right chest?

“We cannot tell what loss and sorrow and trial are doing. Trust only. The Father comes near to take our hand and lead us on our way today. It shall be a good, a blessed new year!” ~From Streams in the Desert by Mrs. Charles E. Cowman, January 1 devotional.