Changing the World One Little Heartbeat at a Time

Recently my husband was watching our newly-turned-one-year-old twins. He had been watching them for most of the day while I finished up some end-of-year testing with our older, home schooled son. At the end of the day when children were fed, bathed, diapered, dressed, and in bed, my wonderful husband met me in the kitchen where I was continuing to work toward cleaning house at the end of a very long day for the whole family. The words that came from his mouth made me pause and delivered the greatest surprise of the day. With a look of exhaustion, both mental and physical, and a slight sigh he said, "I couldn't do what you do." Short of committing himself to me on the day we were married, when he said, "I do," I believe no other words he's ever spoken to me meant more.

I'm currently reading the book by Dr. Laura Schlessinger entitled In Praise of Stay-at-Home-Moms. Those simple, yet powerful words my husband spoke were just the sort of validation women often need to continue feeling they are making a difference in their family and in the world, when all the world around them is conversely trying to make them feel they are wasting their lives, talents, and educations by being "only a stay-at-home-mom." Well let me tell you, I may not get paid for what I do, but there is no job I'd rather have. There is no job more important, more frustrating, more rewarding, and more vital to the future of our country than people who choose to put their children before the almighty dollar. Like Dr. Laura says, "...the pain and aggravation that go along with...parenting don't feel fulfilling at all. So, that means that tilling the soil, planting the seeds, watering and fertilizing, protecting from the elements, aren't worthwhile activities because in and of themselves they are not fulfilling? How, then, do you ever get a harvest?" She goes on to say that, "Life is just not always fulfilling...yet it is in these efforts that we perfect the world."

I submit that I'm not wasting my education, I'm passing it on to my children and using it to teach them the value of life-long education, all the while helping them learn all the little things along the way that adults take for granted. Mostly, I'm here to love them in a way that no other person could ever do. They will grow-up knowing that Daddy and Mama felt they were more important than having two incomes so that we could spend more money on things we didn't need anyway...and they'll never hear us say something as horrible as I've heard other parents say, even in front of their own children (praying their kids don't hear them when they're saying it)..."I don't know how you do it. I could NEVER stay home with my kids. They would drive me crazy!" I would be heartbroken if our children ever thought we felt that way for one moment. I couldn't be happier to be a SAHM and I will never apologize for not punching a clock. My difference is being made within the walls of the place we all call home.

Being a military family places us in a unique situation.  As active duty members of the military, our spouses are on call 24/7, which truly means the whole family is as well.  We must all be ready to flex and yield to the demands of the mission.  Arie and I decided early on that we were unwilling to place finances and careers above the needs of family.  Since I was active duty at the time we became pregnant with our first son, we made the decision that I would not reenlist.  We strongly believed that it was important for me to provide stability and security for our family in the midst of Daddy's ever-shifting schedule of work, schools, deployments, and TDY's.  It was a difficult transition, but one that we have never regretted making.  I used to feel self-conscious that I was not a financially contributing member of the family.  Now I like to think of it as a change in my mission.

A song by Steven Curtis Chapman reminds me often of why Arie and I chose this life; him active duty and me staying home. This song is called One Heartbeat at a Time. You can watch the beautiful video and listen to the song at the link on You Tube. Here are the lyrics:

One Heartbeat at a Time

You're up all night with a screaming baby
You run all day at the speed of life
And every day you feel a little bit less
Like the beautiful woman you are

So you fall into bed when you run out of hours
And you wonder if anything worth doing got done
Oh, maybe you just don't know
Or maybe you've forgotten

You, you are changing the world
One little heartbeat at a time
Making history with every touch and every smile
Oh, you, you may not see it now
But I believe that time will tell
How you, you are changing the world
One little heartbeat at a time

With every "I know you can do it"
Every tear that you kiss away
So many little things that seem to go unnoticed
They're just like the drops of rain over time
They become a river

And you, you are changing the world
One little heartbeat at a time
Making history with every touch and every smile
Oh, you, you may not see it now
But I believe that time will tell
How you, you are changing the world
One little heartbeat at a time

You're beautiful
You're beautiful
How you're changing the world
You're changing the world

You, you are changing the world
One little heartbeat at a time
Making history with every touch and every smile
Oh, you, you may not see it now
But I believe that time will tell
How you, you are changing the world
Oh, I believe that you
You are changing the world
One little heartbeat
At a time

And you're changing the world

How Can I Know Your Touch?

Yesterday I had the tissue expanders filled for the third time since my surgery. The procedure is never painful since I'm mostly numb across my entire upper chest, wrapping around under my armpits to edge of my back. It is nice to have some semblance of a breast beginning to take shape under my clothes.

The doctor noted that I still have some thick scabs on the center portion of my incisions on both sides. He gave me some Elta Lite lotion to soften both the incision areas, as well as the scabs to help them fall off. After only one day it seems to be making a huge difference and my scabs have already begun peeling up.

Last night I was in a lot of pain as a result of the expansion and had a difficult time putting on the lotion. When the expanders are under the muscle and are suddenly stretched it makes me unable to reach with one hand across my chest to reach the other side. I also couldn't apply the lotion with my hand on the same side. It became easier to ask my husband to apply it for me, so I asked him to help.

I squeezed some of the lotion onto his hand and he began to massage it into my breast area. At one time that would have so erotic, but all I could think was how my life has radically changed. As he rubbed this lotion into my skin, I felt nothing meaningful except gratefulness that he was helping me. There was no tingling, no nipple erection because of his touch. I think it finally fully struck me how much this changes our sex life. There's not one part of me that regrets making the decision for this surgery and yet that does not take away the feeling of loss that suddenly hit me. Part of me wanted to go back to the last time he touched my breasts and freeze that moment in time. If I could bottle that sensation and sell it to all the women around the world who've gone through this, I would be a rich woman. Then again, it occurs to me that even without that sensation I am still a rich woman in so many other ways.

Still, I cried gently when I longed to know he was touching me. To date, this is the greatest sense of loss I've felt.

Daddy & the Pickle

Children take things so literally when they're young. Their use of language in general can often be hilarious. In fact, once Koen learned the meaning of the word illegal, he was stopped in his tracks on the first occasion I told him that something he had done was illegal. Of course, I was joking, but he didn't know it and became very concerned that he was in trouble. It has since turned into the family joke that something a person is doing or wants to do is "illegal". I guess you sort of have to be there.

I recall once when Koen was a little boy how much we enjoyed chuckling as he learned about English idioms. The first one that comes to mind occurred when he was about 2.5 and we were living in Hawaii. He was playing with Daddy and found himself in a predicament. I don't recall the exact situation, but it was probably something like Daddy tied his sleeves in a knot and he couldn't put his arms through. Not that this has been a common occurrence (wink wink).

Finally, Daddy commented to Koen, "You're in a pickle now, huh"? At that point, Koen came running to me, crying, and yelling, "MAMA, MAMA! HELP ME! DADDY TURNED ME INTO A PICKLE"! Arie and I both nearly wet ourselves!

Putting Out Fires...a.k.a. Twin Issues

We’ve been on a mission lately to resolve some issues we’ve had with the twins. It all started with napping, but we’ve learned so many things along the way.

At first we were having some difficulty in putting the babies down for the evening in the same room. The problem was that Karter goes to sleep easily, but Lisse makes lots of noise and cries enough to wake him up again. It was becoming a vicious cycle. We decided to try moving his bed into another room to resolve the problem. Voila! Karter was sleeping quickly and lengthy. Lisse on the other hand was still having issues going to sleep.

This brings us to issue number two: Lisse not going to sleep. We began rocking her to sleep in the living room rocker, then lying her down in her bed. No sooner would her head hit the pillow then she would bolt back up crying. This too was a vicious cycle. It killed our backs to stand at her bedside and continue rocking her until she was literally snoring. Only then could we lay her down and be certain that she wouldn’t come back up.

Let me just say that during the day I have no problems putting her down. Of course this was a learning process as well and at one time involved too many tears. Now she takes her bottle, sits with me for a couple minutes while I talk softly to her, then we stroll to her room and I rub her pillow and say, “pillow”. She recently even leaned toward her bed! Normally she’s crying when I leave the room and quiet within a few minutes and asleep in less than five. How perplexing it was then that for bedtime Lisse became an entirely different creature. Then it dawned on me...it’s the light. She can’t go to sleep in a dark room. I wouldn’t necessarily characterize it as being afraid of the dark, but accustomed to a norm of going to sleep in a brighter room. The first night we turned on the lamp, we went into the kitchen and listened to her cry mildly and intermittently. We stood in the kitchen and prayed to God that He would put her to sleep, giving her and us some much needed rest. Again, voila! Suddenly she’s as easy to put down at night as she is during the day.

Now on to crisis number...I don’t even know what! Two days ago, Karter didn’t want his afternoon or evening bottle. Both times he pushed them away after barely a sip. Him not taking the afternoon bottle didn’t particularly bother me, but once he skipped the evening one I became concerned. If you know Karter, you know this is very out of character for him.

In the middle of the night he awoke and would not go back to sleep the way he normally does. Usually I can put his pacifier back in his mouth, rub his back, and he quickly goes back to sleep. Not last night! He seemed wide awake. I tried for a few minutes to cradle him to no avail. Okay, so maybe now he was finally wanting a bottle? Arie jaunted to the kitchen and back, determined to get him a bottle made quickly before his crying escalated. When I first put the bottle to his lips he had the same reaction, one sip before pushing it away. The second time I put it to his lips, it was like the seas had parted and he devoured the whole thing! Whew! Arie was able to go back to sleep, Karter passed-out again quickly and went back down with no problem, then I was out as well.

Act two...Karter wakes again at about 4:30 to 5 am. I’m not sure since I couldn’t see the clock. I cradled and snuggled and again he was needing a bottle. At that point, Arie was going to be up in 30 minutes getting ready for work and I was trying not to disturb his last minutes of sleep. I jogged once more to the kitchen, rushing to make a bottle and get back. As I turned from the sink, shaking the bottle, I was met at the corner of the fridge by Arie asking what I was doing. Uh...yeah, he was obviously still asleep and actually doesn’t even remembering meeting me in the kitchen. Together we rushed back to Karter, I lifted him from his bed and administered said bottle hoping he would not turn it down. Again, he downed the bottle in record time. Having made that particular bottle myself, it finally occurred to me what the problem has been all along. In my haste to make the bottle, I hadn’t taken the time to let the water warm-up. Apparently, here in lies the problem...Karter no longer likes warm bottles. This has proven true with each bottle since. Crisis averted!

Many of the last week’s nights have been spent sleeping on Lisse’s bedroom floor, propped in my bed holding Karter, or sitting on my bathroom floor rocking him and trying desperately not to wake Arie. Now with both babies current issues understood and under control, I’m hoping to spend my first good night of sleep in more than a week in my own bed. I keep telling myself that this is only temporary. Like all things it too will pass. I know eventually I’ll look back and long for these times. Reminding myself of that helps me cope during the times when my back is killing me and I’m feeling overwhelmed by all the needs of those around me for whom I’m responsible. I even think of Nadia Suleman (Octomom) and her brood. I can’t even imagine being in her shoes! Anytime I think of her it’s easy to be thankful for my situation.

Man am I looking forward to having a good night’s sleep!

Tickle Me No?

When I was a kid, my brother used to tickle my armpits until I couldn't breathe. At first it was fun, then I'd say stop, then he wouldn't, then I'd get angry, then he'd get in trouble...you get the idea. Ah, the good times.

I thought a lot about my brother today and those tickles. What also came with them was belly-rolling laughter, at least for a time. Thankfully, my husband is a very witty person and he keeps us in stitches much of the time. Though it's been years since my brother tickled me, that kind of laughter isn't missing from our home.

Today of all days I'm thinking of all this because I came to the realization that since my surgery I am no longer ticklish under my arms. The skin isn't completely numb, but sufficiently enough so that it's not stimulating enough to tickle. It never occurred to me that being ticklish was something to be thankful for, but now that the sensation is gone I find myself nostalgic. Who knew?

And My Navy Life Began...With a Great Leader

(I graduated from Navy boot camp on August 18, 1995. I wrote this on behalf of all the young women in my division to honor our leading Recruit Division Commander. Chief LeVault was what we were told to call him because he had just been selected for chief. The photo shows him as a 1st Class Petty Officer. He has since gone on to become a Master Chief. He taught me many things, including how to run and breathe properly. He also has a daughter named Audrey.)

"To Chief LeVault, for all of your dedication to the success and integrity of the recruits of Division 321. With your knowledge and wisdom you have transformed each of us into someone we can all be proud of. From our hearts we applaud you and thank you for starting our careers off on the right foot. We salute you!

We knew not what we had set ourselves up for as we stepped from the safety of the bus. We had clung to each other through the last mile anxiously awaiting our first encounter with our futures. That night there was little or no sleep and many tears of anger, fear, and frustration. We knew so very little about our new way of life and all the information flooding our minds. It was like taking a drink of water from fire hose. There was no turning back, or so we thought, and though most of us stayed, a select few chose the path home. In spite of their absence they live with us still.

We grew, beginning with our first group shower, from meek and timid girls into independent, responsible, and headstrong women. Through the meticulous standards and grooming of our division commanders we learned attention to details, dedication to teamwork, and an unyielding devotion to each other and all our other shipmates which we will carry with us to the fleet.

Chief LeVault said early in our training that he would not send any recruit into the fleet unprepared. Hopefully, we have proved to him as well as Petty Officers Knapp and Collier that we have what it takes to be successful, career-minded, and able sailors. We all hope we have become what they knew we could be from the start. Their eyes have held looks of frustration and anger at times, but those looks have faded to pride and encouragement more often than not.

Looking back on our beginnings can truly humble us when our white belts start going to our heads. It wasn't long ago that we were less than all we could be. How could we possibly have come this far without the support of our shipmates and our division commanders? Not only have we grown together, but we've also grown up. We can now appreciate more the fruits of our labor because we know we all put forth one-hundred ten percent. United we stand, divided we shall never be because there is no "I" in team. We are there!"





(The "white belts" is a reference to the belt worn by recruits in the weeks just before they graduate. Among recruits it signals one's higher standing within the ranks, noting that one is coming to the end of surviving two months of training. For some it's hell, for others it's transforming. For me, it strengthened my weaknesses, making me more confident in myself and my future. It was a very formative period of my life that I would undertake again in a heartbeat!

The following week at the graduation ceremony I received the Military Excellence Award, which is given to only one recruit per graduation. I think our week saw 671 sailors graduate. To receive that award I had gone through a review board about two weeks before graduation and was quizzed on military knowledge in addition to having my uniform picked over for every fine detail. My shipmates were really pulling for me and it looked good for my recruit commanders to have someone from their division selected for this award. I recall polishing my boots as never before, but it wasn't just me. When my hands would get tired of pressing that frayed, polish-covered tampon against my boot, a shipmate would take over. That's how it was...shipmates looking out for each other and pushing each other to greatness. I appreciate every person who sat next to me and helped me polish those boots. In the end it wasn't just me who received that award, but every person in my division who quizzed me on military knowledge and helped me polish my uniform. All of this pushed me to want more and I began to think in terms of being a "lifer". Though I stumbled along the way, I made the rank of E-4 and was determined to switch uniforms and become a "khaki", a leader.

Eventually, I met Arie. We were stationed in Pensacola, Florida, at the same time and went on to receive orders to the same follow-on command, NSGA Winter Harbor, Maine. Years later, after developing a strong friendship, we were married. Initially, we were planning to take orders together. When we left for our honeymoon we were expecting to return to Maine to find orders waiting for us. We were supposed to be on our way to Puerto Rico. Shortly after returning from our honeymoon in Holland we learned two things: our orders had been canceled (we would be instead moving to Hawaii), and we were pregnant.

Once our pregnancy came into the picture we were certain of one thing. Dual military careers and kids don't mix well and the kids are the ones who suffer most. We made a decision for one of us to leave the Navy and since I was only four months from the end of my enlistment, it should be me. Arie still had two years left before he could have discharged and in the meantime, our son would have been raised for two years by the military child care system. Neither of us wanted that for our son, so here I am...

It was hard to leave the active duty Navy. The days I gave back my ID card and security badge, I cried. It felt at the time like the death of a goal, a dream. Since then, I've realized that the goal I traded-in my ID card for was much more important. I've loved being a stay-at-home-mom. Sometimes I tell Arie I'm living my Navy career vicariously through him and at times I still miss it - but every morning when I awake I'm met with three warm smiles that remind me why I'm not walking out the door with my uniform on.

Defining One's Accomplishments

A girl from my high school, whom I never knew well, but has apparently turned out to be wonderful and pithy in adulthood recently posed the following question: How are you going about defining the things you would most like to accomplish? Without knowing it, she opened a flood gate within me . . . and got me to thinking about bucket lists.

Many in our social networking prone society would answer the question with a simple bucket list. Let me make it clear up front that I don't really care for bucket lists. Whoever came up with the term "bucket" anyway? I rather think of a bucket as a useful tool for holding water, sand, or odds-and-ends. When I think of my goals, I would never dream of tossing them haphazardly into a bucket. These most precious of things need to be planned for and tended to. It's too easy to toss them into that proverbial bucket only to leave them forgotten and unaccomplished.

Like a very wise, but nameless person once said, "Plan your work and work your plan." I would venture to say that many people who create a bucket list give little attention to, and thought for, planning for its accomplishment. Having said all that, I can't simply spit out a neat list of goals to satisfy the curiosity of those who would ask. Short of a heartfelt discussion with a friend or family member who actually cares about said list, what would compel a person to ask me anyway? Is it our tendency to compare ourselves to others? Do we ask because we are wondering if someone else will list some obscure goal we've not thought of ourselves, which we then add to our own list because it sounds good? Maybe we ask because we want to see if our own list is in-depth, creative, worldly, or exotic enough. I know we've all wondered in amazement at the accomplishments of some person or other we've known who has gone on to be a renaissance man or woman. To be honest, I've done it myself, only to realize I was comparing my contribution to my family, community, or mankind, to someone whose life was composed so radically different from my own that I was truly comparing apples and oranges. We're not all meant to do "that", whatever "that" is. We're meant to do our own things.

I could go on to list a number of things I'd like to accomplish in my life. I'd love to get my PhD in psychology and counsel people, write a book, record an album. Fortunately, the things I would most like to accomplish have already come to pass. I am a wife and mom. So, what am I meant to do that I've not yet done? I am meant to pour myself into my children - to mold and shape them into the adults they will become. It is the job I've chosen and the one I do with as much passion as anyone else who follows their calling. With any spare moments I can squeeze out of my day to go on writing, singing, and pursuing a higher education, I will, because those things revitalize me and give me an opportunity to reach out to others; however, no other accomplishment could ever top what I give freely to my kids.

So, how am I going about defining the things I would most like to accomplish? I think God has put in my heart a fervor for these things. He made me the way I am and allowed my life experiences to be what they are in order to accomplish something of His own. I don't need to define them any further than to know that they are a part of something much larger than me.

It's All About the Rainbow

I think of my roommate everyday and wonder how she is progressing. We compare notes and while we occasionally diverge in our sensations since our mastectomies, we most often find ourselves saying, “Yeah, me too!” This bond of sisterhood is something I have come to share not only with her, but also with my mother and aunt who both have survived cancer, just as my roomie is currently doing. And though I don’t consider to have survived cancer per se, I do consider myself a survivor in a sense. The commiseration of this survivorship brings out a degree of dark humor that some may find odd. I can’t help but find humor in these difficulties of life. What could be funny about tubes snaking out the sides of your body or ugly scars that mar the complexion of your chest? Plenty! There will be more later on the humor of such things, but for now I digress.

Sometimes humor is the only thing that keeps you from crying. Sometimes you’re simultaneously laughing and crying. It reminds me of those beautiful, sunshiny days that suddenly are touched by rain showers. As children, those days when the sun and rain dance together are shrouded in mystery. It perplexes us and the first thing we come to realize is the only thing that truly matters - it all results in a rainbow.

Wouldn’t it be beautiful if each of us would choose to weather those storms of life and come to the same conclusion? There is always something beautiful waiting on the other side. It’s all in your choice of perspective. Yes, I said choice, just as we can choose which clothes we’ll wear for the day. There are days we may take a step backward and begin to lament our situations or decisions and that is normal, and yet if we can consistently take two more steps forward, we have won!

Little Girls and Red Roses

Today I witnessed the look of wonder emanate from my one-year old daughter's face as she gazed upon a dozen red roses for the first time in her brief life. I was struck by her innocence and as she studied them, grinning from ear-to-ear with her four little teeth gleaming. I could tell she loved them and would have given anything to read her thoughts at that moment.

I told Arie that she was looking at them with awe and wonder and he quickly glanced over to catch her expressions. His "awe" reaction led me to ponder the future relationship between them.

I recall the first dozen roses my daddy sent me. I was 18 and going through a very difficult time of my life. He sent my beautiful roses to the grocery store where I worked and I proudly displayed them atop my register. The whole day employees and customers alike commented on them. With each acknowledgment of my gift, I was given yet another gift...a reminder that on that day my dad was my biggest fan and greatest love!

I still have the card he attached to the roses that day and occasionally I bring it out to remind myself of two things: Dad's love for me, and God's, for the card read, "Keep your chin up. God loves you and so do I." I'm 38 and I'll never forget those words of encouragement as they linger with me from 20 years ago.

It is my fervent hope and prayer that Lisse is gifted through her daddy in a way such as this. A quote hangs on my bathroom wall that comes to mind when reflecting on this: "Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away." That is where I was left 20 years ago, breathless in the moment...

Showers are a Glorious Gift

Today was a most glorious day! After three weeks and one day of no full showers or baths, I was finally able to clean myself from head to toe. What an amazing feeling to have the water wash over me again. It was almost as if I was having a shower for the first time in years. Standing there with the hot water flowing down from my head and entirely covering my body gave me such a sense of comfort. For a time the whole world disappeared.

Hot water seemed to soften my muscles, warming them to the point that raising my arms above my head seemed nearly physically normal and slightly less labor intensive than previous times when I’ve been doing my exercises the physical therapist gave me. After washing my hair and face, as I usually begin, I moved my way down my body to the chest I’ve been so protective of over the last three weeks. Having babied my drain tubes and bulbs for so long and avoiding water and soap, to be able to softly drag my bath puff across my chest was something like heaven. In some places my nerves seemed to stand gently on end though the sensation wasn’t painful at all. The rest was completely numb, which for now is mostly a blessing.

Continuing my normal shower routine, I glanced down at my razor thinking how nice it would be to shave, particularly my armpits. One tiny little detail everyone forgot to mention is how it would initially be impossible to reach across my body with one hand and touch the armpit on the other side. In fact, there have been times over the last three weeks I’ve had to ask my mom or sister to help me put on deodorant. It’s funny how everyone seems to feel perfectly capable of applying their own, but suddenly unsure if they’re covering the right area when applying it for someone else. I know their feeling since I only recently helped my ten year-old son apply his for the first time. It’s interesting how the nerve-endings in your armpit help direct you in the process. Having made significant progress in this area of crossing my arms over, I thought it would be no problem to shave. This would all be fine and dandy were it not for the fact that my scars, extra skin, and a bulge of my tissue expanders stretches into the fold of my armpits changing their contour and making shaving somewhat of a challenge. It’s odd, but temporary. I still shaved and I felt great, even accomplished.

I made note of how most of my wounds have become smooth with the exception of the very center where my nipple used to be. Family members who have seen this area say it’s interesting how my scabs almost make it look like I still have a nipple. It’s only a trick on the eyes. I know that with time and every shower, the scabs will soften and begin to peel away, revealing the scar that will be a permanent reminder to me of so many painful and yet wonderful memories, including this one - the day I reclaimed part of myself, my independence, my wholeness, my hygiene by doing that one little act that we mostly take for granted everyday - taking a shower.

Liberated From Breast Cancer

For years I have referred to my future as one that was certain to involve breast cancer. I have seen no way around it. Everyone on my mom's side of the family has been struck with it. In fact, I have always said to my husband and close friends, "Someday when I have cancer. . . The prospect has never seemed sad to me, but more like an unfortunate reality that I'll just have to deal with and hopefully overcome. Down deep inside, though resigned, I felt that when death knocked at my door it would say, "Hello Audri, I'm the cancer that's going to take your life".

Well, I was having a conversation with my mom today and a word came out of my mouth that surprised me so greatly that I had to write about it. We had been talking about my most recent doctor's appointment. Tomorrow will be three weeks since my prophylactic bilateral mastectomy surgery. As Mom and I chatted, I casually said to her for the first time in my entire adult life, "Someday if I ever have cancer". IF? It's not like this word is unfamiliar to me, I must have used it in various contexts thousands of times over my lifetime. The subconscious choice of that word at that moment made me take pause.

I considered "IF," mulling it around in my brain for a time and the conclusion I've come to is that it is synonymous with "HOPE". Before this surgery, I think I had been cheating myself of hope - hope that I would be able to avoid the horrible cancers that have struck or killed so many in my family. If there is one family trend I don't want to be a part of continuing, it would be this - that breast and ovarian cancer and the pain and often death that comes with it would stop with me. I can't do anything about being born with a mutation of the BRCA1 gene, but I can certainly be proactive. God willing, I am going to be around to experience a full and long life with my family. Thanks to God and the technology and expertise He's given to so many in the field, I stand now and say "IF" to breast cancer and suddenly I feel liberated!

The dictionary in part says being liberated means: to set free, as from imprisonment or bondage; to disengage. Aside from the lingering physical effects of my surgery, that is how I overwhelming feel - liberated! I used to hit the "I believe someday I will have breast cancer" button. Now that I've disengaged from the "WHEN", that button is a distant memory.

Tubes & Evil Grenades

After a mastectomy, tubes are coiled up in the cavity left by the removed breast tissue in order to drain the fluid that collects in the space. These tubes stick out through holes in your side and are stitched into place. There are two tubes on each side. They extend (in my case) about 18 inches outside the body, with a drain bulb attached to the end. The medical staff called these bulbs "grenades". The tubes must be stripped or "milked" and the bulbs collapsed and sealed so that a reverse suction is achieved in order to draw the fluid out of the chest. The fluid has to be drained four times per day so that a seroma does not form. Seromas can be partially absorbed by the body, but would otherwise need medical intervention to remove the fluid, hence the drain tubes.

Depending on your doctor's preference, the standard is that the fluid from each bulb must drain anywhere from 20-50 ml of fluid in a 24 hour period before they can be removed. My doctor wanted my bulbs to each be under 30 ml and I wound up keeping mine for nearly three weeks as a result. After a time, the tubes begin to form a crust around the skin at the entry point. I found this crusty scab-like formation to be helpful in keeping my tubes from twisting while I slept. Of course I didn't realize this helpful aspect until the first time I removed the crust and found my tubes beginning to twist in odd directions, making the site sore.

I'm thankful for the drains, though I must say they were a pain in the rear. Anytime I wasn't wearing clothes, I had to find some way of preventing them from hanging so that the bulbs would not fall off the ends of the tubes. The collected fluid in the bulbs sometimes made them heavy enough to detach from the tubes. Sometimes I would put the bulbs in my pockets (if I had pockets). Without pockets, I would often attach them to my bra or the lapel of my shirt. Several times when I was using the bathroom just before getting in the shower (to wash from the waist down), I found I had to hold the bulbs under my chin so that I could take care of my "business" without them dangling.

There was also the threat of babies pulling on the tubes, or catching one with a foot if they were climbing on me. I kept covered around them or placed a pillow between my body and theirs to minimize the likelihood of this type of thing. It was hard to have to avoid the babies sometimes. My heart was burdened when I couldn't lift them or let them climb onto my lap. Sometimes it just hurt too much. Thank God for my husband, son, sister, mom, and step-dad at this time! Without them I couldn't have done it.

The tubes were removed today, July 6, 2010. I am thrilled to have them gone! It is so much easier to function. Holding the babies the first time was exciting. For once I didn't have to worry about guarding myself so heavily. I could actually fully embrace them! Now all I have to worry about it lifting them. I'm not supposed to lift them until I'm 6 weeks post-op. My weight limit is 10 pounds and they are each over 25 pounds.

One day at a time...for now I'm just happy to have lost the tubes. Good bye tubes, hello freedom. Once my holes close-up, I can finally have the shower I've been longing for. Ah...

Acne Resolution?

From the time I was about 12 years-old I have had acne problems. For years I thought acne was the type of thing a person would outgrow with age. It never occurred to me that I would be an adult and still struggling with what I thought was an adolescent issue.

I tried a number of products claiming to be the ultimate solution to my problem. Each time I've been let down. I thought using Proactiv would be my final resolution and it has helped by lessening the frequency of my breakouts and reduced their duration, but it hasn't stopped them altogether.

I knew there would be changes in my life as a result of my mastectomy, but the thought honestly never crossed my mind that my skin would clear up as a result of the reduced amount of estrogen due to my breast tissue being gone. It's amazing! If there is one thing so far that I'm very happy about is that I can go without make-up and feel more confident. I don't guess I've had that feeling since I was about 14 years-old. Hormones and the havoc they can wreak on a woman's body is fascinating to me! Imagine what will happen when my ovaries are gone?

Peeling Boobs and Arms

Surprise, surprise, I feel like I'm recovering from a sunburn. It's the oddest thing. Thirteen days post-op and though I'm not red, I'm itching and the skin on my chest and arms is beginning to peel as if I laid out in the sun a little too long (which for me is more than 20 minutes). Hm. From my reading, I understand that this is common. I'm wondering if it is exposure to the operating room lights or one of the medications they've given me. I'm glad to know it's normal.

I even briefly had a competition with my sister like we did when we were kids. Whoever had the sunburn would be "peeled." Each of us would try to peel a larger sheet of skin than the other. It really was a fine art! LOL I'm happy to report that I won this round. After all, they were my boobs! LOL