The Long Process Back to Cleavage

Back on June 22, I had my breast reconstruction. As I mentioned in my previous blog, it wasn't an easy surgery. Luckily, growing the "girls" is a lot easier.

One of the charming scenes in downtown Fredericksburg.

I was in Fort Worth for three weeks to receive weekly injections to stretch the skin and muscle. Ironically, this coincided with my 30th high school reunion. I have to admit, having perky new cleavage for my high school reunion was awesome.

The view from the Pedernales Cellars winery.

One night I modeled for my husband several dresses looking for the perfect one for the reunion dinner. A side product of having reconstruction is that you almost get a new wardrobe. You wouldn't think having cleavage would be a big deal. And I wasn't hugely endowed before. But it's amazing how even a little cleavage helps fill out dresses or tank tops and what it does for your morale.

No, we didn't see Waylon and the boys.

So, with the perfect dress packed, I left for Fort Worth for my "fills" and reunion. Getting a "fill" is kind of like expanding a water balloon. Not knowing exactly how this was going to work, I imagined the nurse coming in with a huge needle attached to something like a Super Soaker water gun in which she would pump me full of water. Well, I was semi-correct. The nurse came in and rolled a port finder over my chest.

"Hey, it's like a stud finder," I joked. "My husband has one of these in his toolbox."

The finder shows the nurse where the port entrance is, then she inserts a tiny needle which is attached to a little tube and syringe. Slowly, the water is injected. And here's the weird part. It really looks like a water balloon filling. It's instantaneous gratification.

Yes, the injection stung a little but as the nurse quipped, "That's good. Well, it's not good that it hurt you, but it's good that you still have some feeling there...you know, that it's not all numb...for you will...well...it's just that sometimes..."

"I know what you're trying to say," I offered her.

Then the doctor came in and spoke to me about the differences between silicone and saline implants. He suggested silicone.

"But, I want the safest implant," I said. "I don't need anymore drama."

But he assured me silicone is nothing like the previous generations. "It's kind of like a gummy bear," he offered. "If I cut a gummy bear, nothing leaks out."

The difference between the two is that saline can be adjusted to make both sides perfectly symmetrical. But it will be hard like a melon.Whereas, the silicone is a softer, more natural feel.

"If it were me, I would prefer a more natural feel. But you do what you feel is best. It's just that the silicone will be softer..."

Then a funny thought came to me. This is so awkward talking to a man about what feels more natural. But although he is a medical professional with countless hours of medical school and probably a nice school loan to go with it, he is in basic form a man.

Two weeks into my filling process, I met my husband in Fredericksburg, Texas, for a getaway weekend. He had to stay home and work while I underwent my transformation.

When we got to the hotel room, I burst out, "So, you want to see them?"

"Wow, they look good. They're already bigger than the originals."

I don't know why, but I was insulted.

"They are not," I said.

"They are," he said.

"Are not," I said.

"They are bigger," he said.

Then we both looked at each other and smiled at the stupidity of this disagreement. I mean, just what was the point?

"Do you want to go out and walk around," he offered.

So, now I'm in the holding pattern. I have to wait six weeks for the skin and muscle to completely adjust before I can get the expanders taken out and have the permanent implants put in.

Oh, and my high school reunion went great. No one was the wiser of my ordeal and I felt great. And here's a bonus, I was voted as one of five women who physically have changed the least since 1982.

I told me husband, "Isn't that funny? With everything I've been through in the last 2.5 years, my classmates think I haven't changed."

The Wondering Texan

Getting the New "Girls"

Well, it's been a busy summer for me. A week and a half after returning from vacation, I traveled up to Fort Worth for the beginning of my reconstruction surgery. I can't believe it's been two and a half years since my life changed forever.

My back scars about seven weeks after surgery.

I won't gloss this over for anyone who is facing breast reconstruction requiring "flaps." Let me just tell you, it sucks donkeys. That being said though, I'm really glad I went through with it.

First, it's about a four and a half hour surgery in which the doctor takes muscle and skin from the back and relocates it to the chest. Then he/she puts the expanders underneath the skin which will be filled with solution over the next few weeks to stretch the skin out for the permanent silicone or saline implants. But, I'm getting ahead of myself.

The very first thought I had when I woke up was 'What the hell was I thinking?' I felt like a herd of elephants had stampeded over my body.

My wonderful nurse gave me hope when she said, "Here's your morphine drip button. You can press it up to three times an hour." Click.

My second thing I thought was 'Thank God for morphine.' Click.

I was told not to move much. The nurse said, "Pretend you are a T Rex with the short arms. Keep your elbows close to your body. That's your range."

OK, that may sound easy. But have you ever tried to wash your hands without extending your arms? Or even pull up your pants without stretching too much? It's not easy. It makes a good case for being a nudist.

On the second day in the hospital, I decided I needed to get up and walk. It would help me feel normal and relieve my back ache. As I held on to my young nurse's arm, we walked past the nurses station. I noticed that all of the nurses seemed to be in their 20s. Then I heard one of the nurses behind the station "whisper" to the other, "Who is that?" The other young nurse responded, "Oh, that's Mrs. X, she's the sweetest lady." What bothered me was the tone of the voice. You know, the sing song kind you save for two-year-olds and 90-year-olds. I guess to them I looked like an old lady shuffling around in my bathrobe and no-skid socks.  I felt like saying, "Girls, I can hear you! I haven't lost that yet."

Joking aside, the most unpleasant part of the whole thing were the four drainage tubes protruding from my body. I also had one "pain pouch" strapped around my neck with a tube going to my back. I guess it's similar to an epidural. They didn't hurt, it's just hard to move, put on clothes, and sleep.

Speaking of sleep, it didn't come easy. As I told my cancer survivor friend Sara, 'I was like a newborn. At first all I did was eat, sleep and poop.' And Sara responded, "Except that you can't poop for about a week after surgery." Thanks Sara for that reminder.

I don't know if it was because of all of the medications, the difficulty moving, or worry, but I seldom got more than three continuous hours of sleep.

Which brings me to a very important point. If going through this surgery, one must have someone there at all times. I will say this is no light duty care the person gives the patient. This person must:
1) Help drain the drains twice a day
2) Help the patient get into and out of bed
3) Make meals
4) Help the patient get dressed
5) Track all medications given
6) Help monitor healing
7) Drive the patient to doctor appointments
8) Be a cheerleader
9) Be on call 24/7

For doing all of this, my dear husband has elevated his status from mortal man to near god status. He has earned his right to throw his dirty laundry on the floor, forget an item off of the grocery list, and most of all, force me to watch three straight hours of PGA coverage on cable. The latter did help my sleep status.

But a week after the surgery, two tubes and the pain tube were removed. Slowly I was returning to normal. But the most encouraging news was when the doctor saw me and said it looked great. He then left and let the nurse remove the tubes. Suddenly, we heard a knock at the door and he popped his head back in. I thought he was going to ask the nurse to help him with something, but instead he looked at me and with an excited voice said, "You really do look great!" He was obviously proud of his work as was I.

Next time, I'll tell you about the filling process. Imagine filling water balloons. Until then, I hope this helps someone who is facing what I have faced.

Wondering which I should get? Silicone or saline?

The Wondering Texan

American Family Loose in France

Chenonceau started in 1513 in the Loire Valley.

Bonjour! My family and I recently returned from 10 days in France. It was the first time my husband and kids have traveled abroad. And it was the first time ever my family have been together for 10 days nonstop.

Well, as evidenced by this post, we all survived each other. I wasn't worried about getting lost in France; gypsies or terrorists; lost bags or the language barrier. I was worried that we would be scratching each others' eyes out by Day 5. 

Chateau de la Tortiniere built at the end of the 10th Century. Now a hotel.

Seriously, before leaving I tried to remember a time we have spent that many days together without an escape route. I think the closest thing was back in 1995 on my honeymoon. And that was without kids or a language barrier.

When I voiced my concerns to my friend Carol, her advice was "drink lots of wine." I did, and it was delicious. We quickly learned that in France, the dollar doesn't buy much. However three things are reasonable if not cheap -- wine, bread and cheese.

Our bedroom at de la Tortiniere

We went to the Loire Valley, Provence, and Paris. We saw castles, dungeons, gardens, museums, open markets, the Eiffel Tower and cobblestone streets.

But what was really fun was seeing another country through the eyes of a pre-teen and teenager.

When we arrived at our first hotel, our daughter plopped on the couch and started flipping through TV channels. "It's all in French," she stated. "Ugh."

Ruins of the historic town Eygalieres.

"Well, that's probably because we are in France," I told her.

My husband is a sort of tech nerd, so he reprogrammed the TV to English. I was a little bummed by that.

But then, the real horror came. Our adapter, which we borrowed, was for England, not France. Now that was a bigger problem and one travelers didn't have two decades ago. The chargers alone must weigh a total of five pounds. But he figured out how to charge by plugging into the TV.

Gordes, built into a side of a mountain.

As we made day trips around in our little rental car and navigated France's many roundabouts and tollways, my husband quipped, "I feel like that guy in An Idiot Abroad," referring to the BBC show of three guys one of whom is sent around the world to test out new experiences.

"Maybe we could be the American version," I mused. "American Idiots Aboard."

Roman coliseum in Arles which is under renovation.

Another learning experience came when we ate lunch in Arles one day. Upon finishing our lunch we tried to pay only to learn that they don't accept credit/debit cards. My husband had to scurry around to find a cash machine which he found six blocks away.

When traveling aboard, one quickly begins to appreciate things both countries have. For instance, in France, the countryside is clean with many wildflowers in bloom. No trash lining roadways. But here's my rundown of each country's top things.

France:
* Clean streets, yards, and towns
* Excellent wine, cheese and bread

Our Hotel Buci room in Paris

* Beautiful countryside and quaint towns
* Long, luxurious lunches (two hours)
* Fresh vegetables and fruits
* Cute boys (this one is from my daughter)

USA:
* His/her bathrooms with sinks and toilet seats
* Manned tollways
* Highways that aren't tollways
* Clothing/shoes at reasonable prices
* Pharmacies open at night
* The can-do spirit
* The consumer driven economy.

Family portrait in Provence.

When Does "Older" Translate into "Old?"

Remember this cute advertisement from the '60s? Then you're getting old.

Yesterday my friend Amy called to wish me a belated 48th Happy Birthday. She's a month late. Her "senior moment" got us talking about growing older and had me wondering when exactly does "getting older" become "you're old."


"I'm having hot flashes and have been a little light-headed," said Amy who is 49. And she missed her last period. So she ran to the drugstore for a home pregnancy test.

"I felt like a teenager hoping that no one I know would see me with an E.P.T. kit in my basket," she said. "It was awful but luckily the test came back negative." Which made her even more nervous prompting a visit to her doctor for tests.

"He came back and told me I'm in full blown menopause," Amy said. "Apparently all of my hormones nose-dived in about a day. So he put me on some mild hormones."

I can relate to the hot flashes. Since being on Tamoxifen to reduce the chances of my cancer recurring, I've been in menopause too. But I can't take any hormones. I never know if a room is warm or if I'm hot.

"Well you're lucky you can take hormones," I told her to which she quickly responded.

"But you're getting new girls this summer and they're going to be all perky and pretty," she said.

 "True, but although my new ta-ta's will be circa 2012, the rest of me will be circa 1964," I laughed. Plus, I wouldn't wish cancer on anyone just for new speed bumps.

This led to talk about our body parts that at one time used to be taunt, perky and wrinkle-free.

Since turning 40, my thighs somehow incurred hail damage. But lately the hail damage has melted into ocean waves crashing down on my thighs. Apparently, Amy's thighs have had the same fate. And we're ladies who have BMI's proportionate to our height!

Then there's the diminished eyesight, gray strands and chin hairs. The ladies in my water aerobics class tell me, "Oh, that's nothing! Wait until you get to be ...60, 70, 80."

I shudder at the thought.

So, I wonder when do you just give up and let the chin hairs grow?

Don't know, but for now I've decided not to go down easily. Now pass the wax.

The Wondering Texan

One City Kid and One Farm Equals New Adventure

Can the farm survive this silly kid?

This weekend is a big weekend for my son. He has been invited to spend the weekend at a friend's farm in a nearby small town. He couldn't be more thrilled.

A few days ago while I was bringing him home from school he turned to me and said, "oh mom, I hope I get to lift some hay. You know, to build these muscles up," while pushing up his bicep on his skinny arm no thicker than a willow branch.

So I called Tracey, the other mother, and relayed this message. "I hope you put him to work," I told her. "He's your little slave laborer for the weekend."

"Oh no, I guess we will have to let some cows out for them to round up," she laughed.

Then, their son told us, "pack a fishing pole because we have a catfish pond."

With this information, my son might not ever come back.


And in typical 10-year-old boy fashion, his packing requisites are a little humorous. He handed me his packing list written in green ink:
* Lego's
* DVD's
* Fishing pole
*Nerf gun and swords
*Cap

Oh, and he added "clothes, blanket, and pillow." I added the toothbrush, socks, swim trunks, pajamas, antibacterial gel, mosquito spray, and underwear.

So, he's off until Sunday. Now the scary part begins. My husband is off at a golf tournament part of the weekend and I overheard my daughter telling her friend, "Hey, my brother and dad are gone this weekend. It's just us girls." And they started to giggle.

I wonder if it's too late for me to go to the farm. Wondering how much hay I'll have to lift to earn my keep?


The Wondering Texan

What Skin Cancer and Espadrilles Have in Common

Yesterday, I had the unpleasant experience of having some skin cancer removed from my cheek. Ick.

 I don't know how the nurses and doctor do it. I'm sure as they work on people like me their thoughts are, "dummy, if you hadn't laid out in the sun covered in baby oil in your teens and early 20s, then you probably would be spared this." But no, I just had to have the golden, even tan that many European descendants covet. Somewhere along the line, I heard that rubbing lemon juice on your face would lighten the freckles dotting my nose and cheeks. It doesn't work.

In my younger years, I tanned along the shores of Cancun; Padre Island and Galveston, Texas; Nassau, Bahamas; and San Diego, Calif. So, my skin cancer has quite a travel log.

But now I'm older and wiser. Emphasis on older. Today I have a lot of weapons to help contain, and hopefully prevent, skin cancer. I have sun lotions with high SPF's. By the way, my dermatologist recommends a lotion called "Aloe Gator Sunblock" because he says it absorbs into the skin and will absolutely not rub or sweat off. It literally has to be washed off with soap and water. Additionally, I sit in the shade at my kids' baseball/softball games. Sometimes I bring an umbrella to create such shade. And of course, there's my sun shirt, wide brim hat and sunglasses for water aerobics. As my husband says, I look like an old lady. That may be, but he hasn't had to have his whole cheek area deadened.

"Now, don't panic at the area we are deadening," the nurse told me. "We're just want to make sure there's no pain because all of the nerves connect."

Then I heard, "wow, nice shoes."

"Are you talking to me, " I asked. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to be moving my mouth. Yes, they were talking to me. They liked my new striped espadrilles. Or as my husband corrected me, "the ladies at the office said they are called 'wedges.' They have never heard of espadrilles."

Well, now I'm feeling like an ancient mummy in my bandaged face. But I do have really cute shoes.

When I left the office, I was like the late actor Dudley Moore in the movie "10" after the dentist scene. I probably shouldn't have been driving since my left eye was drooping. When I got home, it was lunch time and I was starving. Half of my lunch ended up on my shirt.

The good news is the doctor told me to rest and relax for a few days. Ahh, doctor's orders. No lifting anything heavier than 5 lbs. (does that include laundry?), no bending over (does that include picking up shoes off the floor?), no exercise (oh darn!). And the other good news is that the Doc got all of the cancer.

So, that's what I'm doing now. Watching TV and finishing this while holding an ice pack to my face.

Wondering if I should tell my family the "rest and relaxation" orders are only for 48 hours. Nah, I'm going to push it to 72 hours.


The Wondering Texan

Love is in the air in a small town

Today I'm wondering if I can withstand the teenage years. You see, my daughter is 13 and has a crush. No, it's not Justin Bieber or one of the Big Time Rush boys. Oh, how I wish it were.

Dillon from all outward signs appears normal, respectful, intelligent and funny. He has only two faults -- he's a boy and he's a teenager.

But living in a small town poses hazards for any young person. First, chances are you will know the family. Secondly, chances are you socialize with the family either personally or through one of the many community events.Thirdly, if you don't know the family, someone you know knows. It's the Bermuda Triangle of dating in a small town. Except our daughter isn't allowed to date for a few more years. So, I should more accurately say, crushing in a small town.

In my daughter's case, Dillon is the son of my son's baseball coach. And since she has observed this, she is more than willing to go to 10-year-old baseball games and practices.

But what really got me laughing was the conversation today between my kids in the car on the way to school. It went like this:

Son: Did I tell you Dillon told me to tell you "Hi" last night and that he likes you?

Daughter: He did? What did he say?

Son: Hi and he likes you.

Daughter: How did he say it?

Son: What?

Daughter: Did he say, 'Hi or did he say 'HI!'

Son: I don't know. Why can't you just accept it?

Daughter: That's it?

Son: Well, I think he was tired. He kept getting hit by balls.

Me: Was he being intentionally hit by balls or accidentally?

Son: Both.

Daughter: Well, tell him 'Hi' from me the next time you see him.

I just had to start laughing at the humor in this situation. To trust a 10-year-old brother to communicate with the 13-year-old boy is just doomed for massive failure.

It also made me remember all of the late nights talking and analyzing with my girlfriends over the boys we dated. Remember "What do you think he meant by that?" "Why hasn't he called?" "When he said this, do you really think he meant this instead?"

Boy, has my daughter got a long road ahead of her! May the force be with her.

Wondering if my husband can handle all of these boys?


The Wondering Texan