I solemnly swear…

...that indeed the usual autumn Shenanigans are happening:

What could possibly go wrong with possibilities like these?

This year Thing One opted for blue black. Having never used this brand of dye before, we actually did the skin allergy test and all that jazz as instructed I mean, like we always do. However, we have questions. How in the world does one dye simply hair and not scalp?! 

While the intention was not to match the karate gi, it is definitely muted compared to what I expected as we put it on and it dripped everywhere, haha! 

 

Decisions

Where to begin?

Titles are hard for me. I either have one in mind before I write the actual post (rarely) or I struggle to sum up what I've written into a concise title. I dislike reading passages and "telling the main idea" because, for me, life is about all the little things more than it is about the big things. Big things, to me, tend to take care of themselves whereas little things can be wrangled and finessed and pondered over. 

They say the devil is in the details. I am firmly in the camp which knows it is God who is in the details. 

A tiny for instance? My bedroom growing up was wallpapered in Holly Hobbie forever. Like from second grade until about 9th, maybe even longer. At some point, you couldn't see any Holly Hobbie because I had so many animal posters and Johnny Depp posters and my own artwork up that there was no wallpaper visible. My parents finally caved and repainted it Bermuda Blue, which is exactly the gorgeous deep blue of the Caribbean, and they let me paint a mural on one wall.

We weren't in our first home long enough to do any painting, but our second home PaPa helped paint Carrie's room a lovely blue. Our third home, we painted our master bedroom Mountain Lake blue. PaPa quipped about it being the third time he'd painted blue bedrooms for me. I remember musing, "I might like a green bedroom next time."

Guess what color our bedroom is right now, and has been for the five years we've been here? A soothing green. We didn't do it. Details. I've heard it said that God cares about the things which concern us. I believe it, because he loves us, and when you love someone, what worries them doesn't usually sit well with you either because you don't want your loved ones to be stressed out. Sure, it could be a coincidence. It could be the previous owners thought, "green is soothing in a bedroom and we're trying to sell, so... green it is." I prefer to think that God used them to get it ready for us. 

At any rate, I am one indecisive chick. It takes forever for me to pick out a movie (don't even get me started on the endless choices Netflix offers) or a meal at a restaurant. Oddly enough, I manage okay at ice cream shoppes- just a small hot fudge sundae, please. I judge books by their covers constantly and often end up with colorful, captivating outsides which may or may not reflect the quality of writing within; then I can't decide which one to begin with. 

So you can pretty well imagine how hard it was to make a decision which will affect my next 40 or so years, God willing. Yes, here she goes again with the talk about boobs. She's like a junior high boy! For those of you sick of the subject, feel free to Prince Humperdinck, "skip to the end."  And for those of you scratching your heads, you simply must see "The Princess Bride" for your own sake. How many fun references are you missing out on if you haven't seen that classic? But I digress...

The final consensus is that later this month I'm going to go flat on both sides with no reconstruction. In more medical terms that is called a bilateral (both sides) mastectomy (loss of boobage, I guess). Those of you who want to be done reading now have your answer and may be excused. Thanks for the prayers: please keep them coming as surgery is kinda a big deal and we're back to school so that means lots of germs coming home and it'll take time to heal including exercises and lifting restrictions and all that. Seriously, huge thanks and please don't stop. 

If anyone wants more details, here they are. It was a really hard decision that took way longer to make than I thought it would. I had a strong feeling from the get-go that I didn't want manmade materials inserted into me (implants) which had the potential for extra surgeries down the road and/or leakage. After consulting with a plastic surgeon who had us hold them, squeeze them, see what they actually looked and felt like, I felt better about the options but still no great desire to go that route. We were especially reassured that the "gummy bear" ones wouldn't leak even if we squeezed them. However, I'm not enthused by the fact that they're new enough that I can't be sure they won't leach anything into me over time. Those suckers gotta last me into my 80s hypothetically and they simply haven't been around long enough in this form for me to feel like anything other than a guinea pig. Not a great feeling. At what point do small statistics of problems make it okay to try something, you know?

We initially met with him to discuss a procedure where he would potentially use only skin and fat from my abdomen to shape me a new right side boob. He had me stand there and he pinched my excess and said, "you don't have enough you to do what you want to do, which is good because you're thin, except that you only have enough here to make about a third of what you have up there." So there went that option. Since I couldn't make one from myself, and I have never wanted only one- and to those of you (not my term) uniboobs out there, ladies, you are amazing. I don't feel I would be happy like that. I feel there'd be a lot of pressure to wear a fake one and I don't have any desire to go that route either- because I think having one would be harder on my personal self image than having none at all. Having none means no bras,  no underboob sweat, and perhaps I'll weigh less, haha. 

Reconstruction would mean sticking an implant in, layering  an acellular material over that, then replacing the layer of fat and skin on top of it all and then create a nipple out of, I guess, whatever is left over? No idea. But mine are beyond saving, so they'd be newly created nipples. Apparently they can be tattooed, also. Who knew? The whole thing is fascinating. And not for me. The feelings and sensations would not be the same as the originals I have now and it can take (depending what you're reading) two to five years to restore most feeling as it is. What you have then is pretty much what you'll have forever. I'm hearing that massaging the area as much as possible helps keep things looser instead of too tight and keeps the scar tissue from being hard and weird. Let me state for the record that I am no expert on any of this, but I am learning a lot. The amount of information out there is amazing. What we ever did before the Internet, I'll never know. I can't imagine going back. 

Reconstruction from yourself takes the longest time to heal because you have more than one incision site. I was seriously thinking about it because I liked the idea of all the raw materials coming from myself. They nurse explained that thin women and very large women both often walk out disappointed; the thin women because they don't have enough material to work with and the very large women because fatty tissue is not the best replacement material. They said the ratio needs to be more than one to one. Oh well. 

So I decided that:

I've already nursed my babies for 15 months, 20 months, and 22 months, respectively. We're not in the market for any more, so I don't need them for feeding anyone else. 

They've never been that big of a deal for me. In fourth grade, my mother took me to my annual doctor's visit and I was asked if I wear a bra every day. My mother answered, "yes" and I angrily piped up, "nuh uh! I wear an undershirt as often as I can!" It was true. I preferred the undershirts with the tiny strip of lace along the front and the skinny little straps to any of the training bras I had. 

I don't want anything perky and bouncy and ridiculous when I am 80 and everything else looks like... I'm 80. That would be weird. Ew, no thanks. 

I don't want anything leaking or leaching into me. I don't want more surgeries. Yes, I understand they can put them in during the same surgery my originals come out. They're still manmade and I don't trust them. I am not in the market for fake.

I feel relieved that the decision is made and that, since I can't have the ones God gave me, I won't have any at all. I don't see me having a change of heart and desiring them down the road. I simply don't feel like fake ones are worth the potential risks down the road. I am not convinced that I need boobs to, one, look womanly or, two, feel sexy or, three, to be me. 

Three strikes and you're out. The girls are being banished. I reserve the right to mourn them and I'm sure there are moments or times or seasons where I will miss them. That's how life is. God won't love me any less if I have boobs or not. My family and friends won't either. Dada is supportive and plays an excellent devil's advocate to help me think everything through. Have I thought of everything? No, I'm sure there's aspects which haven't occurred to me. Am I scared about it? A bit, but most of the fear was about making the right decision. I am convinced this is what is best for me and my long term health. In the end that's what all of this is about anyway- my best shot at living my life while becoming and then staying cancer-free. PaPa pointed out that I can honestly say, "we threw everything at this health crisis and held nothing back." If I have a recurrence, God forbid, it will not be out of negligence on the part of my medical team or out of holding back and simply hoping for the best on my part. I will have gone through 6 rounds of chemo, surgery to remove the troublemaking breast and the at-this-point "good" breast, five and a half weeks of radiation five days a week, an entire year of IV meds roughly every three weeks as a preventative, plus an additional 5 to 10 years of maintenance medication. If you put that in terms of kids, I will be done with meds either when Carrie turns 20 or when she turns 25. She could be married by then. Liam will be almost done with high school or almost done with whatever college or vocational school he heads off to. Damon will be Liam's age now in 5 years and will be 18 in 10 years. That's a long time. I have a lot to do in those 5 to 10 years and am not willing to be popping back in for surgery to fix things back up should they fail or should I decide they're not working for me and need removed after all. I have better things to do.

Thank you to all of you who have been praying so faithfully as I waffle over what is, still, to me, a ridiculous choice. I told Dada that we are not meant to have to make choices like this about our bodies. If we were, when we're born we would come with a kit like Mr. Potato Head and could add pieces and parts however we chose. How do you balance "your body is a temple and belongs to the Lord" with "insurance will cover whatever because there is so much psychological weight attached to these particular body parts that society says are important"? Thank you for praying for wisdom and for being there to bounce ideas off of and for knowing when I was tired of talking and thinking about it and changing the subject and just for being your wonderful, supportive selves. I am blessed beyond measure, boobs or no boobs. So I'm going flat and not looking back. 

         

Where's MC Hammer when you need him? (File under "Don't Look Ethel". Again.)

Last night was bath night. Carrie poured one for Damon after she finished hers, and he promptly cried that it was already cold (and deep, though for a blazing blue wonder he didn't comment on that aspect of it, which he almost always does). 

Should the period go inside the parentheses or outside? Hm.

We get him clean lickety-split so he can get out of there, wrap him in his hooded monkey towel, and coach him that once he's dry and jammies are on to please throw his dirty laundry into the hamper. I leave the bathroom.

A number of minutes later, a still naked and caped almost six year old comes prancing along the hall to inform me that he "used this towel to clean up the tub. Is that okay?" I look into that sweet, hopeful face and inform him that the towel is for his clean body and probably not best for the tub, but thanks for being thoughtful and wanting to help. He skips back down the hall to the bathroom, towel fluttering from his head.

A handful of minutes after that, a very naked almost six year old gallops down the hall to hand me a bottle of blue food coloring that I actually had seen in the bathroom but hadn't really registered. 98% of his body is still clean, except for the brilliant indigo of his mouth and chin. Yes, I saw you all insert your head into your hands. That's what I did, too. 

"Here you go, Mama!"

And back down the hall goes his naked bum, accompanied by the not muted sounds of hawkering and rapid-fire spitting once he gets into the bathroom. 

I flick Carrie's ear from behind as I return to the kitchen table and she jumps a mile with a "what was that for!?" I ask her why the food coloring was in the bathroom. "IIIIIIIIIIII don't know!" 

"Carrie. Your brothers did not put it in there. Pap did not put it in there. Dada and I did not put it in there. Triskal did not put it in there. That leaves you."

"Oh yeeeeeeeaaaaaah, I was making blue milk."

(Thought but unasked: "In the BATHROOM!?") 

She goes to survey the scene and reports back that "he's spitting all over the towel, just so you know."

Sure enough, not just the hand towel that belongs on the sink is blue. There's also blue on the fresh, clean bath towel I had just washed and rehung that afternoon as well as on the bathmat that had also just been washed and returned.

Good thing I don't mind doing laundry.

"Mama, I can't get it ooooooooff..."

Why can't there be theme songs attached to objects to warn away those with less than honorable intentions? Of course, my house would be a constant cacophony of "Can't Touch This... duh duh duh duh, duh duh, duh duh, Can't Touch This!" 

I am happy to report that with a little more scrubbing and a lot more brushing, Damon Sebastian is now boy-colored again.