May 25, 2017

I’ve read that the first shower after breast surgery is on par with orgasm.

Ummm…..not so much.

Having my drains and a third of the staples removed yesterday came close though.  Gone are the annoying tubes pulling at my armpits, along with the chore of cleaning them!

Though I’m a little wary of ripping open places the staples held together, my surgeon granted permission to return to normal activities.  He didn’t exactly define “normal”, but said I’d know I did too much if I see seepage.

Hold off on the upper body workout?  Probably.

Back to the shower story….it was actually a little scary.  Until today I’ve been limited to sitting in the tub, still wearing my surgical bra, and more or less sponge bathing my upper body.  It was a bit of a pain at first, but I’ve gotten pretty good at it.

Would water and soap get into the formerly sutured spots?

Would they split open?

What about these gaping holes where the drains were?  They’re probably not really gaping.  I’m sure it’s all in my head.

Play that stripper music and let’s get this show on the road.

The incredible feeling of freedom that comes with removing a bra (right, ladies?) was replaced with a strange tightness across my chest, almost as if I was wearing some sort of adhesive strip.

Not painful, just weird.

I’ve been looking forward to going braless, but this is not like I remember!

Speaking of weird, I finally got a good look at what’s left of me.  For the record, I was never amply endowed, save for post labor and delivery, when the milk came in and I had cleavage up to my neck!

A certain country entertainer had nothing on this girl!

I suppose I should feel some kind of emotion, but frankly, I’m just numb.

Perhaps it’s due to the fact that my breasts never defined me.

They did their job when called upon to nurse my babies and then faded into obscurity!  LOL!

I’ve heard women say they cried for days.  Threw things.  Cursed all that is Holy.

I searched my soul for traces of similar feelings and came up empty.  No tears, no anguish, no anger or bitterness and no regrets.

Just resignation, boring and anticlimactic.

Some say the scars will always be a reminder that I had cancer.  I doubt it. That’s something that will never go away, scars or no scars.

If that does turn out to be the case, maybe they’ll remind me to take better care of myself.

Aside from some concern that Hubby will be repulsed by my new appearance, the flatness itself doesn’t upset me.  It is what it is.

I’m simply left to critique the direction it looks like my scars will take.  A bit of a dog-ear on one side, but he did exactly as I asked and left no spare skin.  Nice and tight.  I’m good with that.

If you’re not squeamish, have a look here.

Oh well, into the shower I go, looking forward to feeling the warm water stream down my body.

Well…. that was short-lived!

If you ask me, reports of first shower ecstasy are exaggerated.

It’s impossible to relax because I’m terrified that the pulsing water will hurt my newly unbandaged incisions.

I can’t even lift my arms to wash my pits or shampoo my nubby head!

Go ahead…try to imagine doing this with arms that will only lift to about 90 degrees.  How is water supposed to get up in there?

I feel like a penguin.

In what could never be considered a graceful, acrobatic move, I contort myself backwards, attempting to rinse my pits, one at a time, balancing against the wall behind me.

Success!  All clean!

Well aware that my towel could snag a staple, I dry off more carefully than necessary.

Time to dress.

Finding that a loose-fitting sports bra is miles more comfortable than the surgical model, and holds the still required gauze pads in place just as well, is a nice surprise.

It’s also less bulky under t-shirts.  Win-win!

Now to put a bit of mascara on these microscopic, newly emerging eyelashes and go face the day!

Baby stepping my way back to normal.

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