Operation: Evict Implants

My NYC Marathon training inspired me to start this Substack and now with another big decision on the horizon, I find myself here again.

In 2021, I made the decision to undergo a prophylactic double mastectomy. My sister had been diagnosed with breast cancer at 39. I carried the same genetic marker - Chek2. I could not wrap my head around regular MRIs and mammograms waiting for cancer to appear. Scanxiety - been there and done that with Marjorie.

My decision came with a very long and difficult road. The surgery suddenly turned into seven surgeries in five months thanks to a gnarly infection. (Read here.)

As the years went on, I began to experience extreme discomfort with my implants. Truth be told, I never wanted implants, but they were the best option at the time. Sadly, the infection ravaged my breast pockets and left me with massive amounts of scar tissue.

Eventually, the tightness in my left chest grew worse. My arm felt like the rubber band sling shots we stretched as kids seeing how far we could shoot it across the classroom. Problem was the slingshot was now my chest and arm.

Yearly, I would go to my OB and mention it. She would wince at the tightness and recommend PT. I tried massages and PT exercises. Nothing helped. I was disheartened thinking I had to live with discomfort.

Then implant Rightie started to fall and hurt - and I mean FALL. Rightie was sinking lower and lower because the infection had left me with zero breast pocket. The pain, rippling, and sinking were signs of a rupture.

Meanwhile, Leftie sat high and tight on my chest. Scar tissue turned into concrete contracture holding the implant in my chest like asphalt.

My chest looked like a broken see-saw.

Last October, (after a lot of pushing from my therapist) I made an appointment with my surgeon to see if there was a rupture. He ordered an MRI, but felt it was not rupture and just the aftermath of the infection.

In normal McCall fashion, I put the MRI off until April. As the MRI tech slung rightie and leftie in the metal breast cage, I prayed and prayed that there was a rupture. I knew I could not live in this body anymore, but I also could not go through more surgeries with my high risk of infection. I wanted the implant ruptured so I did not have to make the decision.

No such luck. Rightie was intact happily sitting south of the boob border at an all inclusive resort having a margarita.

With a follow up appointment on the horizon, my anxiety, PTSD, and mental health needed some extra TLC. My therapist and I worked through a game plan to keep me present during my appointment. My go to trauma response is disassociation. I check out, leave my body, forget to ask my questions, and forget what my provider says. She reminded me it was okay to be emotional - and that was the winning ticket.

I drove to the appointment in a whirlwind of anxiety and panic, but focused on my questions to stay present. As I lassoed on the signature paper boob vest, I went through my questions one more time:

1. Infection risk with implants again?

2. Is the DIEP Flap surgery an option?

3. If so, what is the risk of infection?

Three quick knocks on the door. I hit record on my voice memo app in case I forgot. It was go time.

Dr. DeFazio went into all the options, speaking in his quick, calm, voice.

“Take implants out…clean out scar tissue…put in mesh to rebuild pocket…but infection risk remains because it is foreign bodies…”

My voice cracked, “I need them out.” I muttered through tears. “I hate them. I am so uncomfortable. I can’t wear anything I want and they are painful. Is the tissue/flap surgery an option?”

He saw me. He saw the hurt and discomfort.

“Yes, we can do the tissue.”

“What is the risk of infection?”

“It is using your own tissue so the risk is close to zero.”

BINGO.

In a single moment, the weight of the implants and worry was lifted off my chest - soon to be literally.

Of course, that moment also came with the very humbling moment of Dr. DeFazio grabbing, pinching, and squishing my stomach. Pulling a roll here and a handful here.

He sighed and said he *might* be able to get a B cup and there is a strong possibility that I will lose my nipples.

“I. Do. Not. Care. Take them out.”

And that was that.

The plan was set.

With this date comes all of the feelings - relief, excitement, anxiety, fear, and a flood of trauma memories. I will tackle them all in the only way I know - on my therapist’s couch and here.

In just over two months, I will climb (again) on the surgery table to hopefully claim my body once again.

Friday, August 29 - Operation Evict Implants