A POST-BREAST CANCER CHALLENGE: FINDING A SWIMSUIT

I was put on my first diet when I was nine years old, and, ever since, I have felt that bathing suits highlight everything that's wrong about my long-torsoed, generally plus-sized body. Then, when I lost a breast to cancer in 2006, finding a suit that fits went from frustrating to downright traumatic.

I have not had reconstruction and I need a suit that will work whether or not I wear a prosthetic breast form. I hate the damn thing, (you try walking around with a gummy, heavy, fake thing plastered to your chest wall), and wear it as little as possible. I cannot even imagine swimming with it, picturing myself emerging from the pool, prosthesis askew - I like to call it “boobs akimbo” - or worse, having the form fall out altogether. (I once heard a great story about an elderly lady losing her prosthesis in the pool and remarking, “Oh goodness! It's doing the breast stroke all by itself!”) At the very least, I think it would be uncomfortable.


The last time I needed a new suit, after my mastectomy in 2006, I ordered dozens of suits online, tried them all on and then returned all but two - one for swimming and a mastectomy suit for splashing around on the beach or sitting on a dock. This turned out to be in an expensive enterprise, so when I needed a new suit this year, I decided to be brave and face fitting room contortions - and the fitting room mirror.

I rejected suits that didn't cover my scars, that were two big, too small or both at the same time. I worked up a sweat trying to get tangled bathing suit straps over my shoulders, often resulting in a look that was reminiscent of a wrestling uniform. I cried a little bit. Regular suits left me feeling too exposed and mastectomy suits bagged on the chest when I was not wearing a breast form.

I eventually found success in a mastectomy boutique, settling on a tankini. The top is relatively flattering and covers everything that ought to be covered (including my post-pregnancy tummy.) I haven't been swimming with it yet and am fervently hoping that I won't end up with the top around my neck if I try to swim a couple of lengths.

I ended up buying two bottoms, one for swimming and a skirt that covers the cottage cheese that seems to have accumulated on my legs. If I stand up straight, suck in my stomach and glance quickly in the mirror, I actually look OK.

The whole thing was a fairly significant financial setback and the experience wasn't one I care to repeat any time soon. One bathing suit will have to be enough for me.

Why does this all have to be so hard? I know I need to work on accepting my body as it is, with all its lumps and bumps and missing bits but it would be nice if finding a suit that fits (and doesn't cost the earth) could be a reasonable goal for every woman.

THEY TAKE GOOD CARE OF YOU THERE.

I have a chemotherapy and Herceptin treatment tomorrow. And as always after a bit of a break, I'm very reluctant to go spend a day at the cancer centre and then come home feeling lousy.

But of course I'll go and with only a few complaints. After all, I'm alive because of these treatments – and pretty happy most of the time.

There are advantages to having been in chemo treatment for several years. I'm comfortable in the cancer centre and find it to be a bright and generally welcoming place (much less crowded and quieter than the old centre and well worth having endured the many long months of construction noise).

I know many of the staff now, too and I appreciate what a compassionate and skilled team of people work as admin staff, nurses, porters, cleaners, doctors and volunteers.

I have my routine. I bring my pink electric blanket (donated to the cancer centre and won in a raffle), my ipod, knitting, snacks and a water bottle. And I almost always bring a friend.

Sometimes, I see the groups of new patients going through the chemo room, taking the tour after their orientation session. So many look frightened as they face the unknown.

And I remember what it was to be in their shoes.

I try to make eye contact and smile reassuringly. What I want to do is give them a hug and say, “Don't worry. It won't be so bad. They'll take good care of you here.”

To follow Laurie please see her pesonal blog at http://notjustaboutcancer.blogspot.com/ and she is also the author of the book 'Not Done Yet:Living with Breast Cancer'

Allow me to introduce myself

My name is Laurie Kingston and this is my story.

I will never forget the moment when I discovered the lump in my breast, on December 2, 2005. It had been a long day, after a series of long days. I was feeling grumpy and a bit out of sorts as I went upstairs to get ready for bed. Then my hand brushed my breast and I felt what was, unmistakeably, a large, hard lump.

I ran downstairs to show my spouse, hoping hard that he would tell me he was sure it was nothing. He didn’t do that. Neither did the doctor I saw the next day. He referred me for a mammogram, which took place a few days later and was quickly followed by an ultrasound and a meeting with a radiologist who told me to “hope and pray for the best but prepare for the worst.”

The next few weeks remain a blur in my memory (except for the moment when I found a second lump under my arm) as I waited through the long weeks of the holidays. I was diagnosed with very aggressive breast cancer early in the new year. From that point on, things moved very quickly.

I had a mastectomy, followed by six rounds of gruelling chemotherapy and then twenty-five radiation treatments. A month after I completed treatment, I returned to work, only to discover a few weeks later that the cancer had spread to my liver.

My oncologist said that I had “more tumours than they could count” and, when pressed, told me that I had “years, not decades to live.” I re-entered the rollercoaster world of treatment and coped with infections and reactions to medication. Within a few months, I noticed that my symptoms had disappeared.

On June 30, 2007, I had my first clean scan – there was no longer any evidence of cancer. I have now been in remission for two years but I will likely remain in treatment for the rest of my life.

My relationship with the health care system is permanent, regular and intimate. And, for almost four years, I have been telling my very personal story quite publicly. I started a blog called Not Just About Cancer and quickly decided that it suited me best to write openly about my experiences and feelings as a breast cancer patient.

I’ve talked about sadness and joy, anger and frustration. About feeling invisible when a student radiation oncologist wrote on my chest without introducing himself. I wrote about the surgeon who said, “I can cure you” and my wonderful oncologist who said my results were “spectacular.” I related my experiences with hospital who couldn’t see beyond their own stress and of the many more who went out of their way to be kind. I composed my own list of “do’s and don’ts for medical professionals” and I shared my fear that I will die and my children will forget me. I wrote about the need for real universal access, patient dignity and the value and contributions of front line staff.

I started to blog as a way to keep friends and family informed (and as a communications professional, in part to put my own “spin” on the messages being relayed about my health) and as a way to process the flood of information and emotions in those early weeks of treatment. I would not have predicted how central the writing would come to my survival or how my blog could connect me to an active and vital online community.
I feel very honoured to have been asked by the Ottawa Regional Cancer Foundation to be a guest blogger this week. I look forward to sharing some of my stories as an ongoing cancer patient with you.

The above was excerpted from “Patient Personified” an essay I wrote for Women Who Care, published by Pottersfield Press in 2010 and edited by Dr. Nili Kaplan-Myrth.