My BFF Flossie

What is it about boobs ‘eh? They get more written about them, get taken more notice of, commented on, have a plethora of names attached to them (“Bad boys and Bangers” aka Gok!) and generally command more attention than most other body parts…and you have to wonder why that is.

Clearly there are the obvious things, like the fabulous part they play in determining a woman’s shape; or that wonderful moment when you bond with your new baby and you can provide sustenance and nourishment; and the part they play in your sex life….

But wonder you do about your precious rack when you get told you are going to lose one. All of a sudden that right breast of mine took on an identity of its own. I’d give it a bit more attention in the shower; I’d wonder how I’d feel without that nipple I’d got so used to; I felt suddenly protective towards it like it was something separate to me and I had to decide its fate.

Because I did have to make some choices. Admittedly they were limited, and my treasured right boob did have to go. But there were options about what replaced it. Was it to be a saline implant? – nah! That would take months of appointments to get it to the right size. A prosthesis then? Really not keen on that idea. Somehow I still wanted an organ that was part of me.

So a mastectomy it was, with a full reconstruction. But what type of mastectomy? There are a veritable array of options, so I went for a skin sparing mastectomy with a TRAM flap. This means I have a fabulous flat tummy from the tummy tuck technology that now has my trans–rectus abdominis muscle masquerading as a damned fine looking 36D. I can wear low cut tops in summer, and pretty party dresses and I am just thrilled to bits with the result. Two years on I look at the effects of my surgery and see them as battle scars of a war I won with the help of God, my family and two fabulous surgeons.

Funny thing happened when I went for my first mammogram six months after surgery. They’d done all the usual poking and squishing of my left breast, and the right – which I still think of as a boob – wasn’t required for inspection. “No, that’s not a breast” said the radiographer, and I went and got dressed wondering what I had there just adjacent to my right armpit. Talking to my husband later we decided she (because they clearly are feminine organs aren’t they?) had to have a name. Somehow I felt more protective towards her than the other one. She’s been through a lot and still serves me well. She was duly named. So Flossie she is.

Taking part in this month’s Save Seven campaign has been a bit harrowing for me. I never really wanted to tell my story or to be defined as “Jane Sweeney who had breast cancer.” A friend thought my story might help others, and I sincerely hope it does. There is nothing like early detection. If you haven’t seen it, please send this on to all the women you love:

I’m sorry if it gets you blubbing. It still makes me cry to watch it. And I wonder if it’ll be any more effective than this breast cancer prevention video which takes quite a different tack.

In the end it just doesn’t matter to me if a sobbing woman or a hot guy gets you to go and get checked. Taking care of yourself is a good thing, so whatever stage of life you’re at, make it a priority and get those older gals you know and love to be brave and step up for regular mammograms.

Flossie and I wouldn’t miss one.