Rack 'em up!

Let's talk about racks. There are coat racks. Hat racks. Rib racks (yum!). Clothes racks. Pool racks. Towel racks. Deer racks. Bike racks. Ski racks. Rack rates. And racks of lamb (yum again!).

Merriam Webster provides this definition of rack (among others):

     Main Entry: ³rack

     Function: noun

     Etymology: Middle English

     2: An instrument of torture on which a body is stretched.

Anyone who's gone through breast reconstruction would probably agree with at least the torture part of this definition. Yes, I'm talking about THE rack ... you know the one. It's had dozens of websites dedicated to it ... none of which can be published here (just type "rack" into Google and you'll find them ...). 

For the thousands of women who've gone through mastectomy and reconstruction, it takes on a whole new level of meaning. Not everyone chooses reconstruction. It's a very personal thing. I remember sitting in my surgeon's office for my pre-op appointment before my bilateral (double) mastectomy. There was a much older woman in a chair near mine, and she had just taken up a conversation with the patient next to her.

"My second husband left me," she said, "when I agreed to the mastectomy and decided against reconstruction. He couldn't see past my boobs to the rest of me."

I shuddered and chuckled to myself. It was sad and hilarious at the same time. She had so much spunk and was so confident in her decision. Fortunately I knew my husband loved me for me, rack or not. So the decision to undergo reconstruction was 100% mine.

Now I had never been particularly well-endowed. At most I filled a B-cup (except when I was nursing, but that doesn't count). Then of course after nursing I shrank down to barely an A-cup, like many of us do (that does count). Not being a big fan of plastic surgery for vanity's sake, I had resigned myself to live out my days sans-cleavage. Then breast cancer came along.

Opting for the mastectomy was a slam-dunk decision for me. I wanted to be as aggressive as possible. I knew I had two different kinds of cancer in one breast. One of those types (lobular carcinoma) made me predisposed to cancer in the other breast. Then there was the radiation I received to my entire chest area 25 years earlier. Yeah. Just take 'em both. My decision was a good one as I ended up showing cancer in both breasts. Phew. Bullet dodged ...

But back to racks. Having never really had one, and knowing I had a ridiculously flat blank slate and could pretty much do whatever I wanted, I began to stare at women's breasts. Awkward, I know, but productive. If I've been forced into doing it, I may as well get the rack I want ... that will make me feel not only whole, but also (dare I say) sexy?

One afternoon while sitting outside at a restaurant in Carlsbad, I noticed the waitress. She looked great in her mini skirt and fitted t-shirt. "I like hers," I said to my friend, Jen. Having been on this journey with me every step of the way, Jen knew exactly what I meant. But while staring wasn't a problem, I had not yet addressed the challenge of asking these women how big they were ... "I can't," I said with exasperation. "Ugh."

Then off to the bathroom I went. Arriving back at the table, Jen said "Full C." That's my girl ... she asked while I was gone. "Full C, huh?" I replied. "Never thought I'd be vain enough to do it, but that's what I want. Done."

And so I once again have a rack ... a new and improved, bigger and better rack. Lovely shape. Looks great in a tanktop. My headlights aren't too bright due to all of that radiation I had back when, but that's another story for another post.

My pal Susan, who's also in the last stages of reconstruction and will be walking in the 3-Day with me in October, sent this note on Saturday after her first training walk ...

So I walk out of the door with my pedometer attached to my shorts, my ipod with a great playlist attached, a hat, sunscren, my pink bracelet and promise ring on ... you know the deal ... I'm going to walk 5 miles because Page told me to. The weather was great. I was singing to Katy Perry at the top of my lungs, feeling good, when I came across a male jogger. He held out his hand and gave me a high five! THEN he said, "Nice rack!" Normally I would have been offended, but under the circumstances I laughed out loud, gave the girls a squeeze, and walked even faster with a spring in my step."

Therein lies the difference between those that do it for vanity and those who do it to become whole again. Those in search of external approval want to be noticed because they look different ... somehow better than everyone else. Those of us forced into it as a matter of survival and wholeness do it so no one notices how different we really are.

Rack 'em up!