From time bombs to falsies…
I was 19 when I first realised that I had two time bombs strapped to my chest. That was when my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer too late for it to be contained and she had a radical mastectomy at the age of 48.
By the time she was 54, Mother had secondaries throughout her body and she committed suicide in an act of self euthanasia so that we wouldn’t have to watch her waste away and die.
That was in 1972 and I had already had one benign cyst removed the previous year. Thus I had embarked on what turned into a series of worrying discoveries and subsequent minor operations to check them out.
Then, true to the family tradition, I developed cancer myself – in my late forties – and had part of my right breast removed. But it had been caught early, there was no sign of any spread to the lymph nodes, and a course of radio therapy was all the treatment I received. I was living in Brussels at the time.
When I returned to Scotland in 1997 I presented myself to my doctor who arranged an appointment with a specialist at a local hospital. He took one look at my family history and sent me off to a geneticist who tutted loudly and told me that I was almost certain to have a recurrence of the disease.
Three grandparents (my grandfather’s prostate cancer counts because it is similar to breast cancer); my mother; and my father’s sister had all succumbed in their forties and I had too. The outlook was bleak.
So, when I was offered a double prophylactic mastectomy, I jumped at the chance to get rid of the time bombs. I was visited by a psychologist to see if I was fit to have such radical treatment, passed the test – get them off me, please! – and my breasts were removed in 1998.
I immediately rejected the idea of reconstruction. For one thing, it would not be straightforward because, having had radio therapy, the skin on that side was unfit for a silicon implant. Muscle would have to be brought around from my back – no thanks! And meeting women who had problems with their implants firmed up the suspicion I already had about them so I opted out of the whole procedure.
For the last thirteen years I have lived with a hollow chest and coped for the most part. I’ve got used to wearing loose clothing – especially when overweight – and tweaking at it to keep it loose. Occasionally, I’ve browsed the catalogues of bras and falsies but never very seriously especially when seeing the cost of the prosthetics.
I have never felt any less of a woman minus my breasts and although there have been times when I’ve wished I could wear more feminine clothing it hasn’t been enough to do anything about it. The cost put me off and it was also wonderful not to have to wear a bra. Early on, I discovered that men don’t find me any less attractive sexually so that wasn’t a problem either.
But this all changed recently when a close friend encouraged me to look more closely at my options. And, last week, I was given some lifelike prosthetics – for free by the NHS – which are nothing like the birdseed one which my mother had forty years ago. Now there will be no stopping me, and my clothing options have suddenly broadened!
And sporting a new pair of spectacles chosen by a panel of my younger daughter and the aforesaid friend – to replace ones which I’ve never felt suited me – I am now almost seeking out mirrors instead of avoiding them altogether. The psychological impact of all of this is obviously far stronger than I ever imagined it would be. Why didn’t I do it before now?
As for the family cancer, my children have my genes and although their family trees aren’t quite as horrific as my own, their chances of developing cancer are high. I had hoped that there would be a cure by now and, hanging on to that hope, there is still a little time left before they hit their mid forties. All I can do is be thankful that ours is a late onset strain, encourage them to be aware, and keep my fingers crossed…
