Now I look like I've been in a ring with Mike Tyson but it actually doesn't hurt as much as it looks like it should! If that makes sense?!

Big and I arrived at the John Radcliffe hospital at 7am and we were then seen by my two favorite people -surgeon Mr.Coleman and Jane Quinlan.

Shortly after 9am I was then taken to theatre.

I had got myself so worked up over the last few days leading up to this minor op but yesterday I felt calm and I wasn't frightened. It was agreed that they would tidy up both ends of my abdomen scar, carrying out liposuction to both boobs, open up the vertical wounds running under each boob to tighten up the shape and finally to lipofill a slight crease at the top of my left boob!!

I said goodbye to Big but neither of us were tearful this time and I walked into theatre. That bit is always a bit strange, lying there feeling so normal but knowing I was about to go unconscious. Jane put the cannula in and then we agreed that I was going to imagine Jemma and Ben skiing down a beautiful slope in the Alps. I was expecting to go under within seconds but was happily talking about them serenely gliding down the slope and nothing was happening! I asked Jane whether this was normal and she nodded and eventually my head went woozy and I smiled saying "ok, here we go".

I woke about 3 hours later feeling like someone had darted me with an elephant tranquilizer! But I was in no pain - the lady is a genius!!! As usual my blood pressure was very low and I was aware that I was being monitored very regularly as my arm was grabbed and the pressure gauge wrapped round it.

On either hip I have two big white dressing and already the telltale black bruises are beginning to leak up and down my sides. I have white plasters under my boobs and then just deep bruising running under my arms and round the sides of my boobs. I was desperate to leave the hospital as I knew that it would be far less complicated for the children if I was just there to read them a bed time story and they could see that I was fine. The staff were eager for me to stay overnight as I was still completely exhausted and blood pressure low but having promised to come straight to bed we were off in the car and on our way back to Newbury.

Today I am spending the day in bed - this feels very indulgent but I also recognise that I am sore and tired and perhaps, for once, I need to just give in for a bit.

Considering this bit of surgery was completely for cosmetic reasons, my mother asked me " are you ok? Was it worth it?" to which I replied " yes and defininetly!".

This is a funny journey to be on and I can see the finishing posts just round one more lap. Nipples can not be formed for another 6 months now and then they will be tattooed and then I will run through that finishing ribbon with pride. For other women at this point, post- mastectomy but considering final tweaking and tidying up, I would urge them to do it. There has to be some positives and if we are now given the opportunity to have really neat, pert boobs with flat tummys then I think we deserve it!

 

On Wednesday I go back into hospital for minor corrective surgery. Tomorrow I once again put the cream up my nose in preparation and start the systematic cleansing and washing with the red body wash.
 
My left boob is slightly bigger than my right and they poke out at the side a bit so I am having liposuction to reshape them and reduce them a bit. I am also having the sides of my abdomen scar tidied up. Minor ops – only about 2 hours in theatre and I should be home Wednesday night. I have Jane amazing Quinlan as my anaethatist and Mr.Coleman working his magic again, so I know I am in safe hands. Apart from the risks of another general anaesthetic, this should be simple and not life threatening surgery. Why then do I feel so scared?

Come on logic, kick in please.
It’s different this time.
It’s the same ward with the same people but it is different, it shouldn’t be scary.

My head has felt preoccupied all day and it is a relief to be sitting here trying to unscramble it. I am revisiting a place emotionally that I don’t like. I am revisiting the same ward with the same nurses. It feels a bit like revisiting the site of a car crash and I am trying to hang on to logic. This next bit of surgery is purely cosmetic – I could just stay with my new boobs as they are but then that feels silly and I’m not a wimp and I don’t want to be all melodramatic about everything. Why do I feel sick then? Why do I find myself with my shoulders all tense and my hands clenched?

I can recognise a sense of “don’t stick any more injections in me, don’t cut me again, don’t make me hurt”. It is back to that ironic feeling of going into hospital to get broken and not fixed. I want to sit in a foetal position and hug my knees to my chest.

Liposuction surely can’t be that bad? Celebrities have it done all the time don’t they???

It’s going to be fine and just think of the body I will have at the end of it all.

It’s going to be fine.

Medicine for menopause………there is a minefield of advice and recommendations depending on who you talk to.

The oophrectomy in hindsight was fine. The mastectomy was surprisingly fine. Menopause is EASILY the worst bit about this journey and the bit that I gave the smallest amount of consideration. The symptoms of menopause don’t allow you to lead a normal life – they constantly remind you that your body isn’t right, that something very important is missing.

I have dithered about sharing my decisions on this page as I do not want anyone to think that they should do what I have done or that my decisions are right. As always this is just my story and what I personally decided to do. The amazing staff at the Breast Cancer genetics website will clearly say that it is now recommended that it is safe for people in my situation to take HRT. Most people in early menopause take HRT and have no problems with it and constantly praise its amazing benefits.  I just couldn’t face it though and although I am sure they are right, it just didn’t sit comfortably that I had my ovaries removed and then would be taking substitute hormones. Nope, although I theoretically don’t have any breast tissue left I would just be mortified if after all this HRT managed to trigger one cell into becoming cancerous.

However, I had an intruder in my head. An intruder that made me irritable, so snappy, so passionately impatient with those people closest to me. I found myself breaking down in tears having shouted at the children, riddled with guilt about what a horrid mother I was being. Being argumentative with Big and just wanting to scream with frustration at the smallest of things. And flushing. I know I have gone on about it but I was having hot flushes every hour – they just got worse and worse. So finally I saw my lovely GP.

I don’t know what it is about my GP but every time I see him I want to howl my eyes out. I sit in the waiting room, perfectly fine and just wanting to ask his advice, I take one look at him and his sympathetic enquiring face and I burst into tears. Its cos he is so nice to me!!! I trust his judgement though and I always leave feeling he has helped me and the correct medication has been prescribed. Having explained how hard I was finding menopause and how terrible the flushes were, he has given me…………...
Prozac.
Now I like to think that I am one of the most positive people on the planet and I certainly don’t suffer from depression but he explained how one of the side effects of Prozac was that it would stop my flushes and also it would work as a thermostat emotionally – preventing these extreme mood swings and making me feel more normal. Well I have been on them for a month now and they are brilliant! Initially I felt a bit disorientated and spacey but sure enough they have stopped all my flushes and I can once again function as normal. Perhaps HRT would have done the same but for me this has been a better option.

A few months later I also found that my libido disappeared. I felt so sexless – no ovaries, no real boobs, dry eyes, nose, grumpy, tired all the time and I also wanted to confront this. I am not prepared to settle for a marriage without sex and so believe how important sex is and so another visit to my GP was arranged….

Mildly embarrassing…yep. But again laughter and honesty have to be the way to go! After a giggle and honest admissions he gave me a testosterone patch (like female Viagra) to try. Prozac and Viagra eh??!!! Now I didn’t see those two prescriptions coming!! But this last year has taught me how we should all be striving to make the best out of our lives. I want to live, I don’t want cancer. I want a healthy, fun sex life, not a marriage of feeble excuses and physical avoidance. I want to embrace this second chance that I now have and to get it right. To love my new body, to remember how lucky I am and to cherish and nurture the relationships around me. So the patch was stuck on!!

Well firstly, it made me laugh that I was wearing it – like having a secret under my jumper! Every time a man walked past me I consciously looked for symptoms in case I had the urge to grab him and rip his clothes off! The first symptoms were that I couldn’t sleep – wide awake at night (which quite frankly would improve the likelihood of Big’s chances considerably as I am usually exhausted by about 9.30pm!). I then had incredibly saucy dreams!! – always about people I knew which felt very embarrassing the second I woke up! But yes, without going into detail, the patch did work – much to Big’s relief!!  

I kept the patch on for three weeks. It was brilliant and taught me to enjoy sex again but the lack of sleep has meant I have taken it off for now. It is nice to have in the cupboard though and to know that if again I need some help then I know where it is.

Last week I also saw my plastic surgeon again. He is so nice and just so so clever. I have given my permission for him to use all the before/after photos of my boobs and tummy for research etc and now it is time for the next bit of surgery. Mr.Coleman is a perfectionist and I have agreed with him that we might as well make these new boobs as cracking as they can be! Therefore in January I am going to have them reshaped slightly and slightly reduced in size – to make them more rounded and even more pert!!! – well I might as well after all this!! Then three or so months down the line, he will make nipples and then these can be tattooed – I will obviously write about this procedure in detail when it happens. So no new nipples for Christmas this year!! In fact I don’t think my final boobs will be completed until this time next year. It is a long process but I have little feeling in them so none of the other procedures should hurt.

Talking of lack of feeling – 2 things happened that took me by surprise….Firstly on Remembrance day I wore a poppy like everyone else but was rather surprised when I got changed for bed to realise that I had stuck my pin through my boob!! On another occasion I hadn’t realised that my bra was rubbing and I had a blister under my boob. For those about to embark on a mastectomy – remember to check your new boobs and not to stand too close to ovens or to use hot water bottles etc If you burn or cut yourself, you don’t feel it so be careful!!

I love Christmas and this year I plan to drink champagne all day – infact all week. Last years Christmas was scary and surreal. I thought I was going to die. This Christmas I feel safe, so loved and so so lucky.

Happy Christmas x

Big and I have just come back from a holiday of a lifetime. A chance to spend quality time together after a year of hospital appointments and surgery. A second honeymoon and a chance to have fun without responsibility or routine with some very old school friends who I grew up with.  One such friend had decided to marry in Hong Kong and my mother agreed to have Jemma and Ben, it happened to fall within half term and for once our bank accounts were not empty. There were no excuses not to go. So we decided to jump on a plane for a week’s holiday on the other side of the world. Selfishly it felt like we deserved a break from hospital appointments and fear. Although still “nipple-less” my body has healed and once again become familiar so before the next round of cosmetic alterations, this felt a good time to have a major treat.

I ended up exploring Hong Kong with three enormous men. Big is clearly big and the other two men were Somerset farmers who I have grown up with as a child. I have always preferred male company. Stag do’s have always sounded so much more fun than hen do’s. I have decided that actually boys do have more “fun” and laugh more, are more silly and immature and less concerned with appearance and shopping. Well, Hong Kong although very westernised is still made up largely of short people so travelling with these dear friends was amusing from the moment we stepped off the plane.

Immature humour and drunkenness made me laugh until my tummy hurt. I allowed myself to dance on chairs till 4am, to forget responsibility to relax over boozy lunches ignoring “bath time”, “story time” and to just have fun. Pure unadulterated fun. Boat trips, market trips, champagne toasts, massages, manicures, shopping, horse-racing, Buddha visiting, cable cars, beaches, we didn’t stop for a week.

For those of you who haven’t been to Hong Kong it is…tall. Your neck aches at the end of the day from looking up. Incredible buildings that reach the clouds and pavements that put a new definition on the word “busy”. 

For the westerners living out there, there is an opportunity to have a life of pure indulgence. The tax is so low that everyone has an obscene relative amount of disposable income. The norm is to have live in helpers who basically appear to do everything! For the western woman there is no need to shop, clean, cook, and walk the dog, to even drive anywhere. Their sole focus can be on self-grooming in the form of manicures and massages and fitness and the world of colonial sports clubs. These women really do “lunch”. Initially I found myself quite star struck and giggly. Imagining myself not in  Honey bottom but as a beautiful groomed, slim, trendy, calm and elegant lady living on “Mid-levels”. One night we had champagne in the tallest bar in Hong Kong (and I think the world?!) over looking the lights, the harbour, the tiny luminous dots of the taxi drivers as they weaved themselves up and down the grids of roads.

I looked out of the window in silence just absorbing these new mind stretching sights. I was aware of the silent shifts that were taking place in my brain. No longer would London look so busy or the busiest. The memory of buildings and the norms were all being stretched. Light displays and the pure concentration of inhabitants and activity were just breath taking.

But all this free time allowed me to reflect on so much.

On our final day in Hong Kong, I wanted to explore the other side of this incredible island and to see the world of the locals and the traditions and the pavements that are littered with cardboard rather than designer shops. We had a whole day to kill so hopped on the MTR to  Prince Edward, to see the flower markets and the  famous bird markets.

The flower market was beautiful. We smelt our way there like drug hounds. Amongst a city of alarming smog and neon lights we discovered streets of real beauty. Flowers that could never be reproduced by man, colours and scents that were far more exquisite than any Gucci perfume found on the other side of the island. Shop windows bursting with extreme colours yet intricacies. And I noticed that there was immediate evidence of appreciation. At the front of most of the hundreds of florists were buckets of individual roses. Closer examination of these buckets revealed that someone had taken the care and the time to carefully wrap each bud with fine netting, capturing and containing the perfection of each flower. Unlike England where most supermarket bouquets contain at least three stems where the bud has carelessly been snapped off, these flowers were carefully protected and appreciated in a simple yet symbolic way that made me notice. The poorest Chinese woman who had clearly worked an unimaginable day of real labour were spending there precious pennies, not on clothing or shoes or technology, they were spending their money on bunches of flowers. Flowers they could take home and place on their tiny balconies on the 111th floor, in homes that are so small they resemble kennels not houses. But these tiny buds were encapsulating real beauty and surrounding them with treasures of a far more valuable kind.

Rather than smelling our way to the bird market, we could listen and follow our hearing. The noise was incredible. Hundreds, no probably hundreds of thousands, of tiny birds all contained in small wooden often individual bird cages lined the streets.

Previously I have never been a fan of birds. I still hate the way that an animal that has the unique and enviable ability to fly across the open skies is then cruelly contained and restricted. It remains something I disapprove of but that day did teach me some lessons that I will take to my grave.

Chinese people don’t seem to smile much. The taxi drivers that I met during that brief week had frowns on their faces and were not interested in even making eye-contact. The maids in the hotel would scuttle into the elevators and look fiercely at the walls having hammered their required floor button with a clear impatient resentment. They also always appeared to be in a hurry. The drivers were keen to throw you out of their cabs or cram your bags into the boot in a record breaking time before joining the carriage way with an impatience that felt rather death inducing every time! They drive with their heads down elbowing the neighbouring car with reckless disregard of any driving laws or regulations. Positively terrifying most of the entire time to be honest.  Your plate at the restaurants is cleared whilst you are chewing your final mouthful.

But the bird market, nestled within the busy grid of streets away from the designer shops was a place of complete serenity and opposites. Initially I was struck by the sheer noise coming from the market, the auditory volume of the streets, the noise that countless flocks of birds can make. The smell of bird poo and the dirt and dust around the endless open mountains of bird seed and bird paraphernalia. But if you stop before your enter the market, you notice that the locals are not feverishly arguing and grabbing at the stock with a desperation of bartering that occurs at every other market. Instead the customers are generally old Chinese men with faces of serenity who look almost smug as they slowly peruse and peer into the tiny bars of the cages. I stopped and sat on a wall watching them. It became apparent that many of the men were holding meticulously woven and clean cages that they hadn’t just bought or wanted to sell but that they were holding with pride and with a sense of real social status. They were not flashing the label of a designer product or trying to sell you something whilst armouring you with flattery and cold refreshment. This tiny microcosm had discovered a secret, the priceless, the uncopiable, the beauty of nature and of life.

The Chinese man that caught my eye was about 80 years old and his face and body were brown with dirt and engraved with experience.  He was lifting up his tiny bird cage and peering into it with a face of pure enlightenment. His tiny eyes were as round as they were capable of getting. His pupils enlarged and absorbing every trace of beauty that they could retain and capture. He was smiling with a sincerity that mirrored pure happiness and enlightenment. He was looking at a yellow bird. A small yellow fluffy bird that was picking seed from the tiny but noticeably beautiful ceramic birdseed container that had carefully been attached to the side of the wooden cage. It was just a bird, like all the birds that continually inhabit our gardens at home, like all the birds that fly past our windows every second of the day. It was whistling and whistling a very similar sound to the ones that whistle in our gardens that almost disrupt us in the mornings and sing to us in the evenings. But this old and very wise Chinese man had stopped and taken the time to really look at it and to listen to its call. To contain it, perhaps only for a short period but to appreciate it and to wonder at its life and the magic of its existence.

To look at its tiny beak and to smile at the wondrous whistle and song it could effortlessly sing. This was life in a cage. A priceless entity that even the Chinese can not copy and reproduce.

What feels very potent to me now is that I am once again sitting back at home in my study in Honey bottom. Its 5 o’clock in the morning as my body clock struggles to find normality. But as I tap away at these keys, I can hear the sound of bird call out of my window. I have brought back from this amazing holiday, a suitcase full of fake bags and watches and presents but also an awareness once again of what really matters.

I have saved my own life. I have been given the opportunity to appreciate these new sights and to embrace the things that are really important in life. For that tiny yellow bird was singing such an important message. It is not what we look like and what scars are drawn across our bodies. It is not how much we earn, where we live, what cars we drive. What is important is our contribution to this world. Appreciating the tiny quiet song of the yellow bird and making sure our own song is as beautiful and as priceless.

   

“Hi Claire, wow you look great” – awkward glances whilst the speaker tries desperately to not look at my new boobs.

“Its great to see you” – their eyes dart from my eyes to my boobs.

“Umm, you, umm they look so real” – I raise my eyebrows whilst they go bright red and eventually I rescue them from their pool of embarrassment……..

I love my job. I work at a Primary School for the Hearing Impaired called Mary Hare School. It is a tiny school with around 25 pupils who are all profoundly deaf but who are nurtured and taught with such personal concern and care. I have only worked there a year –  only ten hours a week,  but they have been so incredibly supportive and have sent me endless flowers/presents/cards etc whilst I have been away.

It felt weird to be back. Life so nearly returning to the identical routine. Did it all happen? Did I have all those operations? Are they really over? It feels like they didn’t happen and yet I feel such a different person.

It’s been a funny two weeks. Firstly, I am now the proud owner and am completely smitten with……an 8 week old Golden Retriever puppy. I have always wanted a dog and now just felt the right time – both children out of nappies, one at school and a reason for me to now undertake regular weight-bearing exercise. The children wanted to call her “Margaret” which had Big and me in hysterics (especially since their goldfish are called “Colin” and “Frank”)! I then had an email from the Breast cancer support centre enquiring about my blog and realised they were called “Maggie’s Centre” – “Maggie” it is and she is affectionate, loyal already and a complete joy to have in our home.  I find myself stroking her in a quiet hypnotic state and it is such a good stress relief. I can silently organise my thoughts whilst at the same time meet the eyes of a puppy who is gaining trust and companionship with me.

Last week I had an appointment back at the Genetics Department in Oxford. My GP had arranged a check up so that we could talk about where I go from here and whether or not I was a cancer magnet to any other forms of cancer and in which case what further preventative measures I could take.  I was looking forward to the visit and to see Dr.Sulieman again. She was the lady that quietly opened my results envelope back in October and given the unenviable job of telling me I had the gene. She has a quiet disposition and will often nudge her chair forward, closer to you, leaning forward in a nurturing manner that makes you feel at ease and relaxed. She came out to the waiting room beaming, clearly pleased to see me. Dr.Walker   later walked into our consultant room greeting me warmly with “Media Claire!!”. Their referral rate has gone up and they were obviously pleased with the positive publicity I had managed to attract. I was able to reflect how far I had come in the last 9 months, how different this visit felt compared to the last. I couldn’t help but ask her:

“NOW what is my risk of breast cancer???”

She smiled in a knowing and gentle way “2%”!!

Now that felt better…….

She went on to explain how my risk of ovarian cancer was similar and certainly did not warrant any concern. I felt very smug. I went on to ask her further questions about Jemma and Ben.

It is felt that IF they have the gene, they will not be at risk till they are in their early 30’s. I think we have consequently agreed to recommend to them that there is no point them getting tested before then. I want them to grow up knowing they may have the gene but that it’s not a big deal and certainly not a death sentence. As I have described before, I am grateful for the precious years when I didn’t know I had the gene mutation and I don’t want Jemma to have to even think about the possibility of breast cancer or anything the gene may provoke. For Ben, if he had the gene then his predicament is much better than I had realised. His risk of breast cancer is still raised but only to about 7% and although his risk of prostate cancer would be much higher, he could have the blood test to monitor his PSA readings (Prostate Specific Antigen) on a yearly basis to monitor this. More importantly Dr.Sulieman kept pointing out that my two littlies are not at risk for another 25 years and hopefully by then the whole scenario will be so different. If Jemma is then found to have the BRCA2 gene then I am hoping she will be in a position to look at me with utter disbelief that I had to take such drastic preventative measures when a simple pill was now available!

I have had numerous emails from women in America indicating that new studies are suggesting a higher rate of skin cancer in BRCA patients – statistically unproven at this point but already raising eyebrows. For peace of mind really, it was agreed that I would be seen by the Dermatology department once a year so that any present or future moles could be checked. 

I was then seen by the neighbouring dermatologist who carefully examined my entire body. At one point I had to smile…..

He was using a circular hand held magnifying glass to look at each mole and to check the outline. Having examined numerous moles he found one on the lower part of my tummy and said:

 “Keep an eye on this mole, it looks like it may be changing shape” to which I replied:

“Could it look like that because four months ago it was up by my cleavage???!! He laughed and then silently nodded. The miraculous nature of my surgery clearly being recognised!

I drove home smiling.

I have also done another bout of publicity. I had a long live interview for Radio Berkshire with Sally Taylor. .She is an amazing woman who is the face of  South Today BBC news (television). She herself developed the beginnings of breast cancer and quickly took preventative measures by having a double mastectomy. It was nice to be interviewed by someone who clearly knew what it all felt like and her constant references to this blog has led to numerous new emails/hits on the site. The messages I receive continue to amaze me. Women using this site as an easy way to explain to friends what the gene mutation is all about. Women who are about to embark on the operations or have just found out they have the gene or are awaiting their results…all so positive and I can honestly say it feels lovely that my journey may now be helping so many other people.

My menopause symptoms continue to be dreadful if I’m honest. Now that I’ve had the mastectomy I know I am eligible for HRT but it just feels crazy to have my ovaries out so as to not produce hormones and then to fill my body with Hormone replacements. The argument is that I now have no breast tissue that could ignite but I can’t help but recognise that it is likely that there are a few minute breast tissue cells left and I just don’t want them to go on and develop breast cancer. I have said to myself I will give it a year and if the sweats and mood changes continue then maybe…… Actually, if the mood swings don’t improve then I think my husband might hold me down and forcefully  stuff my mouth full of hormones so I am easier to live with!! I am aware that one minute I am crying with sentimental slush about my perfect husband, daughter, son, puppy, cottage etc and the next minute screaming at the children to get dressed, shouting at the puppy to stop eating the kitchen table and scowling at my husband!! Hmmmmmmmm maybe HRT isn’t such a bad idea?!

We have had a lovely summer as a family and been on numerous camping trips. During these trips I have shared a king-size blow up bed with Jemma and Ben (If you met Big then you would know that it was virtually impossible to share an inflatable anything with him as every time he got on the bed, my nose was significantly closer to the roof of the tent!). To hold my children whilst we were all snug in our sleeping bags listening to the rain on the tent or watching them toasting marshmallows on the camp fire, allowed me time to absorb my fortune and to slowly recover emotionally from the ordeal of the last half of the year.

I am seeing Mr.Coleman again at the end of November to arrange nipple reconstruction so I will write again then.

I am aware that over 25,000 people are now following this blog.

I feel very humble. 

It’s early, in the 5’s and I’m hot.

It starts in my toes, just a little tingle, a little warning sign and then it begins.

Hot blood runs up my veins and through my limbs. I can visualise it in my head as it happens. A tree of arteries across my back that becomes flooded with heat. Immediately spots of perspiration  try pathetically to compensate. My body  rapidly becomes all clammy, sticky, I feel my face flush and the back of my neck drip. I instinctively want to almost start panting and find myself becoming restless and pacing round the room.

It doesn’t sit comfortably inside my head either. It is a reminder of my interference. It feels as if my body is suddenly needing something that it can’t find and instead responds in panic. It’s not right.

I’m not sure what I could/should/shouldn’t take. I think I could now have HRT as theoretically I have no breast tissue left (or very little). But I have had my ovaries removed so as to remove all hormones and to now just replace them all artificially?……seems as bit crazy.

And if there are just a few cells of breast tissue left and the HRT ignites my gene then ………….boom…….., I have triggered something that may lead to cancer.

I think there are plant based substitutes available but the cynic in me just feels the doc would have prescribed them if there was any real evidence that they worked.

I have interevened to such a ridiculous level and now surely I should leave nature to rescramble and to heal me?
But I’m hot. Most of the day and almost all night…..

Today I had my 8 week check with Mr.Coleman to see how I was healing and what further procedures I may need.

I always get a funny feeling when I walk back into the John Radcliffe hospital now. I find myself crossing my arms and scowling.
I feel safe there but uncomfortable.
I don’t want anyone to operate on me again and yet I fully trust all the staff and the plastic surgery department.

Anyway, it was nice to see God (Mr.Coleman) again. I felt almost proud of myself.  I wanted to somehow show off to him and say “Look, haven’t I done well?? Aren’t my tummy and boobs great?”.  I pushed my skirt down  a bit so he could see the incredible scar  that runs from hip to hip. Already it is fading and now I just have a pink thread-like line running right across my bikini line and hips. I knew that there were a few stitches that he needed to remove as they were poking out and were really spiky against my clothes but he did this and then sat back and admired his surgery.

I then took off my top so he could look at the scars around my boobs. Again there were two stitches that he needed to remove but my boobs are completely numb so I didn’t feel a thing. One of the stitches gave me the heeby-jeebies though….it was on my left boob and it was obviously there to make sure the circular tummy skin remained attached to my breast skin (basically where my nipple was). God carefully got hold of the end of the stitch and to my horror pulled out about 15cm of nylon that was inside my boob.  I was slightly concerned that the whole disc would then full off and the contents of my boob sort of slither and slip out onto the floor but unsurprisingly this didn’t happen!  The circular scars around my boobs are all healing nicely and in some places they are literally invisible.

Both my boobs are around a DD-cup but with a critical eye they are slightly wide and sort of bulge out at the side abit (this is only noticeable if you really try and measure them, at a glance they are fine). God explained how we are now going to wait till November to see whether they drop a bit and whether this shape alters when the final bit of swelling goes down. I don’t think I am going to need lipo-filling or anything though – if we want to be supercritical he may alter the shape slightly when he creates the nipple but at the moment we need to wait a further 3 months to let nature reorganise itself a bit. My boobs feel very soft and natural though and I think everyone is delighted with the result.

Emotionally I feel stable and content. Last night I went out for a beer with an old school friend who I haven’t seen for a couple of years. It felt surreal describing from start to finish what has happened since November but I also felt proud.

So that’s it really! I will write again following my appointment in November and then describe the procedure needed in order to create nipples and the final tattoeing that will eventually take place. I do not want to bore you with waffle about my everyday life and want to keep this blog very specific to my experience as a BRCA carrier.

I have binned most of my old underwear (off-white pants that I think I must have owned since primary school and beige bras that I honestly did mean to wash by hand but that somehow snuck their way into the washing machine every week and now are unrecogniseable). I now only wear matching brightly coloured underwear  - something I think all women should do as it makes you feel a million dollars no matter what you are wearing.  And I can tell you I am almost completely healed and I am happy.

Life is good.

I have just watched the documentary on BBC3 about whether an 18 year old girl called Josie is ready to have the BRCA gene test and the agony she had to go through in pure contemplation. She could have been called Jemma.

One day she will be called Jemma.

I have done so much publicity over the last few days – local radio stations, newspaper, tv interviews and I have made a pile of cut outs to put in my scrap book. On these articles are photos of a lovely family – a unit that looks so strong and so happy. I can read the articles and look at the photos and it feels so alien. Can we really be going through all this? Are those photos really of my precious family?  Have I really just had my breasts removed?

Perhaps the documentary was just “too close to home”. Perhaps I have just had an objective glance at the horror of it all. I found myself holding my new breasts and rapidly checking out with myself “they are ok aren’t they? They look ok don’t they? Its all ok isn’t it?”. The small girl in me needed reassurance.

It reminds me of something that happened to me one night in the hospital ward.

It was about day 4 after the operation. I still had all my drains attached and numerous tubes etc but I felt comfortable and wasn’t in extreme pain. I had managed to have a tiny supper and the nurses had just given me my final medicine for the night. I had a sweet chat with one of the nurses who tucked me up for the night, puffing up my pillows and filling my water jug, making sure I was as comfortable as possible. I said “goodnight” and she turned out my light as she walked back onto the ward.

Just as I was shutting my eyes I heard somebody arrive in the room next door. It was obviously a girl and her husband and one other female relative. I could hear them opening and shutting the cupboard by the bed, sitting on the bed and working out the network of light switches. Minutes later I could hear Mr.Coleman and Jane Quinlan join the family. I could hear them all talking and recognise the familiar voices through the wall.  It suddenly became clear that this girl was in the ward to have my exact operation.

It felt strange. My operation had felt so unusual and so personal to me but of course other women would be booked in for the same thing.

I lay in bed straining to hear their conversation. I could hear the total fear in the girl’s voice. I could hear her husband offering her tissues. I could hear Mr.Coleman describing how it was time for him to mark her breasts in order to guide his incisions the following morning. I could hear Jane Quinlan trying to reassure her that she would keep her alive and the epidurals and painkillers that would come into immediate effect when she woke.

I suddenly knew that I wanted to meet this girl, to reassure her that I knew exactly how she was feeling and to actually show her that it would all be ok. To show her the miraculous job that Mr.Coleman had done on my body.

I wriggled myself upright and turned on my light. Although exhausted I so wanted her and her husband to see for themselves that even just 4 days later I was ok and my body was ok and not as butchered as I expected. I wanted to reassure her husband or brother that they need not be frightened that they could see for themselves that it wasn’t as bad as their imaginings.

I looked down at the wires around me and slowly started to unhitch them from the bed sides in order to be able to hide my drains under the blanket so as not to scare them. I tidied my hair and even put lip balm on and then when I thought I looked presentable I pressed my buzzer.

The night nurse quickly came in and stood by my bed. I can remember her saying:

“Hey you, I have just tucked you up for the night, what are you up to now?!”

I answered: “You are going to think I am crazy but for the last half hour I have been eavesdropping and have heard the girl arrive in the room next door. I  know she is having the same operation as me and I can hear her fear and how Mr.Coleman has been trying to reassure her. Can you ask her and her family whether they want to pop in and I can literally show them that there is nothing to be scared of?”

There was a long pause and finally the night nurse answered:

“Darling, there’s noone in the room next door, its empty love”.

But that didn’t make sense.

I had heard Mr.Coleman, I had heard Jane Quinlan and the fear in the girls voice.

Slowly my frown began to lift and my eyes glared opened. There was no girl, the room next door really was empty. I had heard the voices but I had confused their identity. That terrified girl that I had been listening to was really me. I was replaying my own experience, my own conversation. Mr.Coleman and Jane were reassuring me, I was remembering my own questions.

I was initially completely spooked by this. The night nurse quickly realised this and sat with me until I was able, with her help, to appreciate what was happening. I was on such high levels of medicine that they were mind-altering, almost hallucinogenic.

I then began to realise that the girl that was listening this side of the wall was wanting to offer reassurance. I was beginning to comfort  myself. I was telling myself that it was all ok now. There was no need to be frightened, the operation was much better than I thought it would be, the pain was manageable.

I was parenting myself.

Watching that documentary tonight I can pity that 18year old. I can listen to her story and be absorbed in her dilemma appreciating her terror at possibly discovering that she has this terrible gene mutation. I can watch it completely objectively. Now I am sitting up with my computer and I feel contaminated. I have inside me what they are all so scared of having. I have had the blood test result that they are agonising over – that they are all dreading.

I have the BRCA2 gene mutation.

You would think that after all these months, after all this writing, publicity, the operations, that that simple fact would feel normal and acceptable by now.

But it doesn’t you know.

What operation?
What gene?
It’s so bizarre the way these things work. I have spent the last 7 months being completely distracted and monopolised by the thought of my mastectomy and the fear of breast cancer etc etc and now that I have had the op I realise that I almost keep forgetting about the whole business! Life has returned to normal. My focus is on potty training, nursery pick ups and endless supermarket shops.

“Take it slowly” is a command that I have naively and stupidly ignored. After three weeks I was back driving and I have been on numerous day trips with the children and behaving as if nothing has happened. HOWEVER, I now have the second of two post-op infections (sorry Mr.Coleman SO my own fault). I really thought I was “home and dry” – my scars are already looking less raw and the swelling has gone down a lot but I do feel very foolish and very sore now.

I made some mistakes that were avoidable with prior knowledge. I presumed that I was better to wear very loose clothing around my tummy and boobs so the scars could heal and wouldn’t rub etc WRONG!!!! If I wear tight trousers or spanx pants (!!) then everything feels far more supported and “safe”! I found myself walking around town literally holding my tummy in with both hands as I could feel it swell – this is so much better since wearing different and tight clothing. The scarring around my left boob is now infected and the result is that it has turned very red and shiny on one area and it can seep yellow fluid. However, hopefully this wont be for long as I am taking strong antibiotics and cream etc. I am also “taking it slowly” from now on…

Last week I was also surprised to find myself across a double spread in “Woman” magazine. I knew that an article may appear at some stage but it was very bizarre to be having a cup of tea and turning the page to find my entire family looking up at me. Once I had finished choking on my tea it was good to see the "Fact Box" once again highlighting to the public what to look out for and protecting the public who may be at risk. Since that article the publicity side has also gone a bit crazy and I am now doing endless interviews for radio and television.

It feels nice to be honest.

It feels nice to have come out the other side and to now be able to try and really shift my focus into helping other people.
If I think about it too hard it still makes my head hurt – I think I may have saved my own life.
That is just such a big deal and I find it very overwhelming. If I have saved my life then I have to make sure that other young mums who are in the same position have the opportunity to do the same thing.

I feel like I have swerved cancer.
It was coming straight at me and I dodged it.
It didn’t get me.
I managed to side step at exactly the right time.

Knowing my luck though I will probably now go and get bloody bowel cancer or something but right now I am feeling pretty smug that I have won round one.

Having my infections, I am reminded that I still have a way to go before my boobs are finished. I am due to see Mr.Coleman at the end of next month to see how symmetrical they both are and whether I need lipofilling or something similar (basically where they suck out excess fat from different places around your body and use it to pump up and shape your boobs –  recycling liposuction!). I have to hope that these infections calm down and also wait until December before I can have nipple tatooeing, I have another 6 months of  appointments and final reconstruction before I can finally close this chapter of my life.

In the short term, I am easy to spot…I’m the blonde who is looking smug, the one with a great pair of  knockers and a flat tummy. The one who is perhaps doing more than she should and who promises to slow down. The one who still squeezes her eyes shut every night and whispers “thank you” to the  big man in the clouds.

Its been three weeks since my mastectomy and it feels a life time ago! I have been up and about ever since I got home and now life has surprisingly quickly slipped back into its usual routine as if nothing has happened.

I saw Mr.Coleman a couple of days ago and he removed all my dressings. Everything is healing really well and I don’t need to see him again for another 6 weeks and then nipple reconstruction in December.

For those of you who are contemplating this operation, I have written a very detailed account of exactly what happened and what to look out for under “Operation 2”. (You can find this as a drop down tab under “My Story”).  I hope you will find this informative rather than scary – the operation itself wasn’t scary and I know I would have found comfort in reading such an account before I went into hospital.

Emotionally I have been fine ever since the operation and only had one bad day. My menopausal symptoms are still raging and my hot sweats can make my wounds sting. On the bad day I looked at my body and just saw a distorted mess – not having nipples is freaking me out more than I thought it would and I can’t wait for this reconstruction to take place. However, my tummy is shrinking and all my clothes are too big – it has to be said that this is a HUGE silver lining. I have always been so conscious of my wobbly tummy and I honestly think that by the end of the summer I will be able to wear a bikini and noone will see any scars or know that I have had a mastectomy. My boobs are also shrinking a bit and looking very natural – I have a cracking cleavage!!

Its Father’s day today and I made sure that the children made endless cards, paintings, a desk tidy etc etc for their amazing daddy. Big was woken in bed at 11am with a cooked breakfast on a tray and then we spent the afternoon as a family at the local fete. He is a truly  special man with a “golden core” – a sense of honour, kindness, loyalty – a goodness that I appreciate every second of every day. I know I could not have got through the last 7 months without him.

And my daddy…..

I miss him.

I know he would have wept if he had known that he had passed the BRCA2 gene down to me.

I am not sure he could have witnessed these last 7 months.

Maybe if we had known about this awful mutation then we could have saved him and he wouldn’t have died – we will never know. All I do know is that he passed on to me many other genes – genes that have made me confident, happy, appreciative, positive.

Happy Fathers day.