IN MY SHOES: And What Color Nipples Would You Like Mrs. Ruccia?
By Cynthia Ruccia
The last time I had breast cancer seven years ago, my husband was very seriously ill with lymphoma. I had a mastectomy, but my cancer was much less serious than his so it was all about him and saving his life. I always told him that he had gotten lucky because if it had just been about me, I'd have been a serious Drama Queen.
Well, he's now 100 percent healthy, and it’s my turn on center stage. We drove to the hospital for my 4 p.m. surgery in a very melancholy mood. As soon as we parked the car, I started bawling like a baby at the thought of losing my other breast. I cried all the way from the parking garage into the hospital telling my husband that I most definitely did not want to be there; couldn’t we just go home? It took a stern talking to from him to keep me from running away. Everyone thinks I am so tough, because I am willing to stick my neck much further out than others would have the nerve to do. I am tough, but I am the biggest baby when it comes to anything medical.
Once I had convinced myself that I was at the hospital and not in Heaven, it was a relief to wake up in the recovery room. I was cozy and comfortable, strung out on propofol and morphine. The next thing I know, I'm wheeled to my own room where my husband and son and future daughter-in-law were waiting.
Unbeknown to me, the skin around the resection was dying and doctors were throwing a Hail Mary pass to save it. They cranked up the temperature of the room to 80 degrees, put me under six blankets, and pumped me full of IV fluids – along with more morphine. Apparently, I told some jokes that will forever be part of our family lore.
The next day, the crisis passed and I was discharged. I was so pumped full of fluids, I could barely button my usually loose-fitting pants. But that didn't stop me from getting out of there!
A week later, I saw the reconstructive plastic surgeon to plan our next steps. There is a 50-50 chance I will need chemo, but once that is resolved I get my made-to-order boobs. After seven years, I will have a matched set again! The not-too-big- not-too-small, bra-optional pair is what I have in my mind. But the doctor asks me a question that threw me for a loop: “What color nipples would you like, Mrs. Ruccia?”
Apparently, I get to choose this too – and there’s a catalogue showing the seemingly endless number of choices! Light, dark, pink, brownish … on and on and on. I was thinking something dark to match my hair, but I turned to my husband and said, "Honey, what would you like to see?" He turned several shades of red … and never really quite expressed a preference. So I did what every woman does when her husband won’t help her make an important decision – I asked my hairdresser. He suggested a nice delicate light shade. I have also called old friends around the country (some of them men) and posed the question. Everyone had an opinion.
At the age of 58, the idea of making these decisions is, well, kind of sexy. I mean, all those years of living with one pair and then getting a new pair custom made down to the color and shape of my nipples. I’m going to have to give this decision a lot of thought.
Update: Big sob! I have to have chemo. My doctor tells me the chemo isn't to save my life, but it’s more an insurance policy to give me the 100 years that I want on this Earth. Still, I am trying to wrap my mind around being bald when each of my sons walk down the aisle this year. All of my well-laid plans have been blasted to smithereens. But I'm not one to stay down long, so let's just say that my future plans are "under construction."
Editorial Note: Cynthia Ruccia, a contributor to this blog, writes about post-liberal feminism at Too Cynthia. This first-person piece is edited from a post on her site, and an E-mail update she sent to her friends.
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