One of the more irritating features of this breast-building business is the tissue expander stage. Folks who have augmentation without mastectomy will have smaller implants placed either behind the existing breast tissue (fat & glands we associate with breast shape), or behind both breast tissue and pectorals (the large chest muscles so popularized by Jack LaLane). It’s a choice they make with the help of their plastic surgeon.
Folks like me, who have breast and underarm tissue removed in any of the various mastectomy surgeries, have a couple of reasons for needing to go the tissue expander route. If their own skin is spared, there’s no support for the implant within that empty pocket, so space must be created behind the pectorals to both support and hold it in place. It needs to be a larger space, for a larger implant, as there’s no more breast tissue to help shape it. Those who have a complete mastectomy that includes removal of skin and nipple will also need tissue expanders to stretch not only muscle, but the overlying skin as well.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: this is NOT a comfortable process. Aside from the requisite stretching and burning, I have this sense of something foreign–something large and foreign–strapped to my chest wall. All the time. It’s uncannily like wearing a too-tight bra every waking moment. And every other one, too. I’m constantly reaching up to tug on the elastic, pull at the underwire, or actually unhook the back. But nothing’s there.
Oh boo hoo. There are waaay worse things that could be happening right now.
But it is really strange. It’s exactly the sort of deja vu experience I’ve had ever since my parents died. Where I think before my brain stops itself: “Dad’s gotta see this…” or “let me just call Mom…”
I suppose in addition to grooves in my brain that track to the Mom and Dad thoughts, I’ve got another groove that tracks to the “gotta get this bra off” thought. And not just the thought, but the actual motor impulse that has me reaching up to find the thing. They’re the kind of impulse pathways that plague amputees with phantom sensations they’d swear were coming from the missing limb. Or the missing breast.
So if I’d gone with my health ed teacher’s advice and worn better fitting bras all my life–bras that didn’t create the need to reach up and yank down–would I still be doing this? Maybe some PhD-type will do a study. And give us a new ICD-9 code: phantom bra pain. I want my name on it.