I was sorting some old emails, trying to make room on my computer, and I found the emails around my surgical experience of 2011 (a too-long post about it from 2012 is HERE). I can hardly believe it's been ten years; in a way, the time has sped right by. But in a way, it seems like forever ago. And I feel like a completely different person now than I was then. Though I guess most everyone feels that ten years out...
In 2019, the last time I met with my plastic surgeon, she reminded me that my implants have a 'shelf life' of ten to twenty years. Hm. So, in theory, the warranty could be up on my implants this year. That's not really a pleasant thought. I'm a little surprised that none of the doctors I see every year checked in with me in 2020. I'm on a 'watch and wait' protocol for a lot of things, so I'm wondering if I'll hear from them eventually - when I get back to NYC, I'll be making appointments with all of them. My plastic surgeon told me at that last visit that I'll need to start having MRIs again, to check and make sure the implants are in tact. It's safe to say that I am not looking forward to getting back on the MRI merry-go-round. In fact, it has crossed my mind to say that once these implants are ready to be swapped out, I may not want to swap new ones back in.
I guess, since it would already be a surgical procedure to have them removed, I could just as easily have them replaced than have myself 'deconstructed,' as it were. It's just that some days I wonder why they're even there. I'm not seeing anyone, and unlikely to be any time soon, so it won't matter to anyone but me, and I wonder if I care enough to do it again. Some days, when I feel swollen and awkward, I feel as if they're more trouble than they're worth. But I do wonder about my sense of self if they were to be completely removed from the equation visually. Not that I'm looking at myself very often; the scars are nearly as prominent now as they were then, so let's just say I don't hang in front of a mirror admiring myself all that much. I'm guessing the scarring would be even more drastic if I decided to go flat.
It's interesting, I think, to consider the differences between then and now, and I don't just mean physically. After you hear, "you have cancer," no matter what stage, nothing ever is the same again. Even after ten years of all-clear visits. I'm different. I see things differently. I'm afraid of every medical issue, yet I'm not afraid. There's an interesting dichotomy of 'how bad can it be?' and 'uh, I KNOW how bad it can be and it can also be MUCH WORSE.' I felt as if I had more hope and trust then and wallow in a little more nihilism now. I'm also still taking my avoidance/denial habits along for the ride - there are several new appointments I should be making, but I'm not. I have a built-in excuse (hello, pandemic), but once I'm home, that excuse won't be as easy to justify to myself.
Perhaps it's just this time of year. I feel sluggish and lethargic at my best of February moments (cold and snow are not my friends), then I think about Februarys gone by. Of course, being February in a seemingly-never-ending pandemic DOES NOT HELP. It also doesn't help that I've lost quite a few high school friends lately, I'm feeling my mortality. And, for some reason, it frequently still crosses my mind that a lot of people in my life don't know about my surgery experience - I will reach out to friends when I find out they're going through the same thing, but I do it privately, and hope they don't share. At the same time, there are friends I wish did know, so I could talk to them about how it affects our relationship (because it does, though they don't know why), but it's hard to imagine saying to someone "hey, by the way, ten years ago I had this thing...".
But why tell people now? I don't know. But it's such a part of me, why NOT tell everyone? It affects most of my decision-making and much of my internal compass. Every now and again, I do just blurt something out as a justification for something I've said and the person at the other end of the conversation just stares at me. It's not nothing, but it's not everything either. After all this time, you'd think I would've settled into my relationship with this part of myself. I think maybe I'm just afraid of more surgery. I've had enough to last me my lifetime - and that's not even taking recent vertigo issues into account. Sigh. Enough whining. Please, I haven't even talked about my continuing fear of fire, thanks to this time of year. Yikes. I think I'll make a cocktail and whine into it. By now, you're probably ever so ready to join me. But I will keep updating when something new comes up, because, why not?? Shouting into the internet is much better than brooding into my tired brain...
