Blue Peter Boobies.

Almost as distressing as losing a left boob, my hair, and quite a lot of my dignity over the last few months, is the cost of mastectomy bikinis. Now, I’ve always objected quite heavily to paying handsomely for anything which is basically a couple of pieces of string and two cloth triangles to keep your tits held up on the beach, but holidays are the only time I ever seem to think about having my photo taken (weirdly, I tend not to capture the memories of everyday family life, such as shoving fish fingers in the oven, screaming at the kids, or filing away the gas bill.) So, it’s nice to go on holiday with a few decent clothes, and wear something that makes me feel good on photos and in the sun.

We’re now on our much-anticipated family holiday, which marks a new start for us all – and while I would probably have been happy enough to sit in a tshirt, just for the joy of feeling some warmth on my skin, I didn’t want to miss out on being able to splash around in the pool with my boys. They’ve had little enough of me lately as it is.

Marks and Sparks, and George at Asda, do a couple of good and inexpensive mastectomy swimsuits… but I don’t want a swimsuit. I’m not even 40. Even though I’m still in the process of shedding the Chemo Stone (not easy when there’s always free booze and a buffet) I want to wear a bikini. This summer, I’ve discovered that mastectomy bikinis are generally available on specialist cancer websites at around £120.

Having lost my husband to cancer and gone through a year of treatment on my own, I want our children and I to live our lives to the full – and spending ridiculous sums on a piece of cloth with a pocket in which to stuff my falsie is not part of the deal. £120 could buy us more days out and holiday memories, and making memories is something our family will never regret.

So, here’s what I made earlier. In light of the missing cleavage situation, I’ve bought some ordinary bandeau bikinis from a high street shop for about a tenner each. They have little pockets in the side with a boob-shaped insert, presumably to keep everything looking even, and to minimise the chilly post-swim “light switch nipple” situation.

I’ve stuffed some quick-dry material in the pockets (the same stuff as those exfoliator puff things you use in the shower;) enough to match the other side. It sits quite happily behind the insert, safely and comfortably, doesn’t lose its shape, and dries out quickly after a swim. You would simply never know. (And as a bonus, I don’t need to worry about my false boob falling out and bobbing around in the pool.)

It’s hard enough having to lose such an important part of my body, but it’s even harder when doing normal things like swimming become seemingly unaffordable. Although I won’t be able to wear anything with a cleavage until after my reconstruction next year, there’s no reason why I – and so many other women – shouldn’t be able to join in with the simple pleasures in life. I know I’m not a big lady, but given the way bandeau bikini tops squish everything a little flatter, I don’t see why it couldn’t work for everyone. I’ve also decided to keep the straps on, so it’s less likely to end up around my neck, half way down a water slide.

Nobody here has noticed that I’m any differently endowed than anyone else. I guess they will if I decide to pop up (or out) over here…

Love Fanny x


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The One Tit Wonder.

I’m having a mastectomy in the morning. My left breast is going to be removed – completely. In a few hours from now, you may legitimately refer to me as The One Tit Wonder. Although I wish my husband was alive to love me through it, I also know that my ability to perform a soapy tit wank will be temporarily suspended, so he definitely had the best of me, and I should probably welcome the timing. Since I’m going to spend the rest of the year with one boob, a dry vagina (apparently one of the main side effects of my forthcoming hormone treatment) and bald from chemo, I doubt that I am the North of England’s Most Eligible Widow at this point, anyway. I’ll be holding him in my heart through all of this, if not in my cleavage.

I’m finding all this pretty hard to take, but I know it has to be done. I also know that, had I just gone ahead and booked myself in for a mastectomy with immediate reconstruction back in August when I was diagnosed, I might have already woken up a few months ago, cancer-free and with a new breast. But, I panicked. I couldn’t come to terms with having cancer less than four months after losing my husband to the same vile disease, and delayed, and tried to do anything I could to save my boob. But it didn’t work, and the three little Stage One tumours they thought I had are actually one large, late Stage Three tumour – in my skin, my chest wall, and my lymph nodes. What couldn’t really kill me before, now absolutely could.

The day before I went for nipple and breast-saving surgery, a friend of mine died from metastatic breast cancer. And I know that, with or without her boob, her family would give anything to have her right back here. That’s exactly how I feel about my husband, and I’ve written about it many times before. In his case, he lost his oesophagus and part of his stomach, but he was here, and I loved him. And now he’s not there (but I still love him, and miss him desperately – as do our young sons.) He could have had a leg or an arm or even his willy removed, and I really wouldn’t have cared. Well, I might have cared if he hadn’t had a willy, but we’d have coped. He was so much more than one single part of him could ever have been.

I didn’t think it could happen to me. It doesn’t happen that way, does it? Kids sometimes lose one parent to cancer, but not two within months of each other. Well, it bloody well does happen. I’m lucky – I’ll survive this, with a fair wind and a decent cocktail of drugs, and provided they take off the right tit. (By which I mean the left tit. Please, God, make sure they take the left one.) Later, I’ll have a new one, but I’ll have to live with a bra full of sponge for the time being, because they tell me there’s no point in rebuilding something that’s going to be damaged by radiotherapy, and I must wait until everything settles down. I even have my little pink bag of shame packed inside my hospital case, with a regulation-issue mastectomy bra and a wad of sponge for me to add to or take away from as I see fit, when it’s all done. I fucking hate it already. My tits are brilliant. Were brilliant. I don’t want to swap one of them for a fucking sponge.

So, what I want to say to you is this. Feel yourself. Go on. You’ll feel a bit of a twat, especially if you end up at the doctor’s, but don’t worry. If you think you’re lumpy, or spot any changes, just go and get yourself checked. Doctors aren’t magicians; they’re only human, and it took me three visits to be finally diagnosed. Medicine can be quite hit and miss, but you’ll definitely miss if you don’t go in the first place. Don’t be embarrassed. Doctors have their fingers up people’s arses on a daily basis, so what makes you think yours is so special they’ll remember it? Ask Dr Google and make your web search history even more interesting. Know the signs. Whether it’s your boobs, your bowels, the top of your leg, or the end of your penis, it really doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t have happened to me, but it did, and my dithering and flapping and grief could have cost me my life. My husband and I both told the doctor as soon as we’d noticed symptoms, and in my husband’s case it was still curable, but only just. Oesophageal cancer is impossible to spot until it becomes hard to swallow, by which time it’s often too late, but we still had an extra precious year thanks to him acting when he did. Hopefully, we’ve got mine in time. So, seriously – what’s the worst thing that could happen? You’ll die. That’s what.

I live every day with two little boys who cry and scream and fight their way through the heartbreaking consequences of terminal cancer, and I owe it to them not to let them see me through it as well. It might be slightly embarrassing to go to the doctor, but believe me – the process of death is far worse. No matter what happens – whether you have life-saving surgery, or you end up in a hospice – you’re going to have strangers faffing about with catheters, so make sure they’re doing it to keep you alive, and not just to make you comfortable. And if you’re fine, you’ll be relieved, and there won’t be any catheters at all. If I’d been in an accident and the only way to save me was to saw off my leg, they’d have done it there and then and asked questions later. I have to remember that this is the only way. I wish my husband had only lost an extraneous body part, and not his whole life, because by losing him we lost everything that made us a family.

It was never the right time to let go of my husband, and it’s not the right time to say goodbye to my left boob. But, I have to remember that it’s only a tit. My husband thought it was fucking ace, and we did have some fun with it and its counterpart over the years. Most importantly, though, it fed and nurtured our children, and if I let it go now, I can continue to do that for many years to come.

Love Fanny x

 

2017-01-08

A useful infographic from http://www.breastcancercare.org.uk. Go on, have a feel. You know you want to. And when you’ve done that, check everywhere else. Visit http://www.cancerresearchuk.org/about-cancer/cancer-symptoms for more information.

 

 

 

 

Paying it Forward.

Here are some simple but effective ways in which you can help to pay good things forward. You’ll reap the rewards. Try it. It’ll barely hurt at all (unless you choose the marathon option.)

The Rucksack Project – Go to charity shops, get a rucksack, sleeping bag, flask (fill with hot soup), spoon, gloves, hat, fleece, undies, socks and extra food, take it out and give it to a homeless person.

Operation Christmas Child – Fill a shoebox with toys and gifts. It will be the greatest gift some kids across the world will ever receive. Check out the website for more information on what to give, and how to get involved in your area.

Give away stuff you don’t need. Don’t spend hours listing it on eBay (unless the proceeds will go to charity.) My sons were trying to save all their pocket money for a model Pirates of the Caribbean Black Pearl ship, RRP £200. Ridiculous. A few weeks later, we encouraged them to give away some of their old toys to charity, and days after found the very ship they wanted in a different charity shop for £10.

Give to a food bank, or support organisations such as the Trussell Trust – Many churches collect at Harvest time, but most supermarkets have a container somewhere in the store where you can donate tins and packets of food. If your local store doesn’t, ask them why not.

Grow your hair, then donate it to people with cancer. Donate your blood. Just give what you can. It doesn’t have to cost you anything, but it could be a matter of life and death for somebody else.

Run a marathon, or set yourself a challenge. Even walking 5k is a bigger challenge for some than running a marathon is for others. Get out there and do it. Why can’t you? Of course you have time.

I could go on. Perhaps I will another time, but in the meantime… Be kind. Be thoughtful. Love.

You reap what you sow.

Love Fanny x