Out With the Old, In With the New

In our autumn edition, Colne Life writer Sophia Smith shared her story of living with the BRCA gene that increased her risk of breast cancer and resulted in her decision to undergo a preventative double mastectomy at the age of 22. Two months after her operation, Sophia shares the story of her surgery, from her leopard print crocs to walking up to a woman enthusing about Christmas jumpers in September and getting used to her new implants…

What a success – I am now the proud owner of two new life saving boobs. I wish I could tell pre-surgery Sophia that everything would be completely fine, the sleepless nights and fretting before the operation started to take its toll. Ten weeks on, I can tell you that it was more than okay. I might have lost my old breasts (and my sanity for a little while!) but I gained a new refreshed positive outlook on life.

I’m certainly not used to the freezing sensation of the implants, they can get extremely cold to touch, especially now it’s winter. I’m also not used to having to be careful when I jump or dance about, but that is something that I won’t have to worry about over time. It’s taken me three months to be able to even sleep on my side again! I spent 12 weeks propped up in bed with five pillows.

The morning of the surgery, I was still trying to pretend it wasn’t happening. The car ride with my parents felt like the longest journey ever even though it was only from Colne to Airedale Hospital, near Keighley. As we got to the surgery department, the nurse told me I had to enter alone. I just burst out crying! It wasn’t a cry over changing my mind or not wanting the surgery, but I just wanted my parents! I’m about to turn 23-years-old, and still need the reassurance and support from my parents, as I expect most people do. The nurse could sense my anxiety and kindly let them enter the ward with me while we waited and I was happy again.

As I put on my surgery gown, and not so attractive surgery socks, I remember catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, pale as a ghost and sick with nerves, and realising this is the last time I would see my old boobs! The remarkable breast surgeons Liz Baker and Claire Murphy marked up my breasts with dozens of lines, they were extremely reassuring before the surgery – and I could not have asked for a better team or hospital to have experienced this with.

I could not have asked for a better team or hospital to have experienced this with.

Usually, many people get wheeled down to surgery but the nurses let me wander down with them – they found my leopard crocs hilarious. As I walked into the surgery room the anaesthetist was waiting for me, the room was extremely big with an operating table in the centre of it. It truly looked like something from a nightmare. Tears started streaming down my face and I felt like a scared little girl again. I kept sobbing and the anaesthetist ordered me to stop crying – only because he said that I would wake up on the other side crying too and it would make recovery a sad experience. Or maybe they just wanted me to stop blubbering on them!  I climbed onto the operating table still wearing my crocs, the team started laughing and pulled my shoes off, it was time for my anaesthetic. Expecting them to make me countdown from 10, I had been yapping on about my upcoming travels to Australia before coming down to theatre, the anaesthetist just said in a soothing voice, ‘pretend you’re at an Australian beach! You can hear the waves, it’s so calm right now’ and within ten seconds, lights out! I wasn’t at the beach, it was pitch black nothingness till I came round!

‘Are they okay? Do I have boobs? Is this real?’

I got wheeled into a new ward when I had come round properly, the morphine and fentanyl made me dizzy and I just remember sleeping for hours until I was awakened by a woman talking loudly on the ward about how excited she was to buy a Christmas jumper this year. This was September?!

I was in a confused state of mind, and I was desperate to have a look at the outcome of the surgery, but I couldn’t even lift my arms up, or string a proper sentence together, never mind stand up. I pulled out my phone and put the front camera on so I could have a quick peep, and there they were, covered in dressings, bruised and swollen, but they just looked like normal boobs!

I had two chest drains on each side of me to drain off the excess fluid my body was creating as a result of the operation, and I was wearing two snazzy shoulder bags to carry them around in. These were sent to me by a new friend – Dawn, who I had met in a group for people who shared the same BRCA gene through Facebook, she had also had a double mastectomy with reconstruction the previous year and helped me tremendously through my own journey with her support.

At one point I was bursting for a wee, and the nurse said I would have to have a cardboard pot under me and I would have to wee laying down. Being the person that I am I wanted to prove to myself I could stand up just fine, without any help! I pulled myself up, the drugs were masking the pain I would’ve been. “I will walk to the toilet by myself.” I kept saying to the nurse. Before I had even taken my first step out of the room, I threw up all over the chairs and floor. Maybe I should’ve let the stubbornness slide for one day!

My mum, Clare, picked me up the following day from the hospital, I had a pillow strapped to my chest the whole way home so I couldn’t feel the seatbelt pressing against me. Each small bump on the road sent a shock through my chest, ouch! She drove really slowly to ensure that it was as painless as it could be.

Once home, I just remember sleeping for days. Neil, my dad, and Clare, did everything for me, from gory things like helping to drain the blood from my chest, to plaiting my hair or making me scrambled eggs. I feel very grateful that I had so much help by everyone, not everyone is fortunate enough to be surrounded by a caring family to help them go through a procedure like this. Often you realise in situations like this how much you actually are cared for!

‘Are they okay? Do I have boobs? Is this real?’

My drains were removed five days following my operation. Freedom! It wasn’t that horrible having to carry those bags with me all the time, but the itching they produced was excruciating. An itch that would not go away.

I could finally shower after two weeks – yippee! I had been taking ‘wipe’ showers every day and brushing my teeth with T-Rex arms because I still couldn’t lift them without lots of pain. The day I could take my plaits out and wash my hair felt like paradise.

I had also spent months before my surgery taking the dogs out every day, hiking, working out, keeping busy with friends, just to distract myself from the anxiety of the surgery. Being stuck in bed for weeks sounded quite nice at first, movies, reading, sleeping, but because of the medicines I couldn’t even make out any words on the page of a book, or watch a movie without nodding off ten minutes in – I was bored out of my mind! Patience, not a typical virtue of mine, was hard to conjure.

I took a trip back to Airedale, six weeks later, to check the progress of my boobs. Apart from an odd trip to the doctors due to an infection on the scar line, which was cleared up with a course of antibiotics and Manuka honey, everything was going well. I researched what the best remedy was for helping the wound heal and found that Manuka honey was a natural antibiotic and thought I would give it a go! It definitely helped, but all I could feel was a sticky chest all day and smell the occasional sweet whiff of honey!

During my visit there, one of the nurses brought in a white box. Inside was filled with stick on nipples, all different sizes and colours! She gave me some that were similar to my previous ones, which gave me a great sense of normality when I looked in the mirror to see some semi-normal looking boobs again (even if I could peel the nipples back off), it can be my party trick!

‘My journey doesn’t end here, it starts!’

Weeks later, the dressings were off. There they were: my new boobs. I looked, and was instantly filled with thankfulness towards these incredible people that have helped me to get here. They had taken away dread and nervousness, replacing it with security and reassurance. I might not have my nipples, and I might have scars, but they will always be a part of me, and a story I can live to tell for a long time!

My journey doesn’t end here, it starts! By the time the ColneLife readers can read this – I’ll hopefully be on that Australian beach, (with an excess of SPF on my life-saving breasts to keep them safe!).

Read Sophia’s story from the autumn issue here.

ColneLife Spring 23