How my mastectomy taught my children the beauty of self-confidence – She knows

I was not prepared for all the compliments I would receive when I got my breast implants. I had perfect breasts. They were so perfect that I agreed to have them featured in full on my plastic surgeon’s website. I was proud of my new breasts and wanted every fellow young breast cancer survivor to know that they too could have an amazing breast reconstruction. I even joked that one day I would be the “hottest old lady in the nursing home.”

I thought my mastectomy and direct implant surgery would be one and only (for a long time). I exchanged my old breast tissue, which contained multiple, adolescent, malignant tumors, with silicone bags — and believed I would live happily ever after. But the fairy tale turned into a nightmare.

From the outside he looked pretty good. I had the ideal curvy body — you know, the one you see all over Instagram. My breasts would not sag with age. They were prominent and perfect, filling out every bikini top and V-neck top.

However, I started experiencing strange and seemingly unrelated symptoms. One morning, I woke up and noticed that my feet felt heavy, as if they were encased in drying cement. After popping in my contact lenses, I noticed my toes were a dark shade of purple-gray. I began to experience increasing anxiety, yellowish skin, and joint and muscle pain. Suddenly, I couldn’t eat certain foods and drinks, like strawberries, guacamole, green tea, and shrimp. Although I was always exhausted, my heart felt like it was always racing. At one point I ended up in the emergency room with a pulmonary embolism.

I have brought these concerns to several medical professionals, including specialists. I had scans, labs and exams. Each time, the doctors were confused. More than one doctor suggested that my symptoms were all in my head. I became increasingly depressed and anxious, so much so that I prayed to God to let me die in my sleep. I was trapped in my own body.

Luckily, my breakthrough happened when I did a little research on my symptoms and discovered a social media group dedicated to women with breast implant disease, also known as BII. Reading post after, I had an “aha” moment. The reason I wasn’t diagnosed with any specific condition was simple: breast implant disease is not recognized as an official medical condition. However, more than 150,000 women in the social media group believed it was real. Many of them posted side-by-side before (with implants) and after pictures, demonstrating the stark differences between living in a chronic state of inflammation and healing.

That day, I called my plastic surgeon and made an appointment. Waiting the three weeks to talk to her was excruciating, but for the first time in a year, I felt hope. When we talked, I told her I wanted to have an explant: period. I had zero reservations. My breast implants were poisoning me.

I continued to have over 29 different symptoms up until the day I had the implant. During this time, I got my house ready, my husband rearranged his work schedule, and I told my kids that my implants were coming out. Of course, they had a million questions — and I answered every single one.

I will never forget when my then 9-year-old daughter came to me one day with a drawing in her hand. He designed a progression for me. There was my (then) current self: a stick figure who appeared sad. Then there was me in the OR, surrounded by doctors. Finally, an arrow was drawn in post-op me. I smiled, two X’s written on my chest. To this day, I love this children’s art more than anything else.

Getting implants took up valuable time. There were days when I was lying down, crying, tired and anxious. My youngest was a preschooler, full of energy and “watch me, mommy,” and I couldn’t keep up. I just had to spend holidays and birthdays, I couldn’t volunteer at their school, I missed church. Even when I was awake and physically present, my mind was elsewhere.

My youngest, shortly after explanting, ran up to me and hugged me while I was talking to another parent. She announced: “I like hugging my mom better now that she’s had her breasts cut off!” I laughed and explained to the woman that I had had a mastectomy and breast implant removal.

I think – and hope – I’m doing a good job of showing my four children, especially my three daughters, that society cannot define beauty and health. Our bodies and minds need us to be kind to them. Nutritious food, exercise, rest and deciding how we define our own beauty is key. Limiting my kids’ exposure to social media has been helpful, as well as practicing what I preach. I want to show them that it is possible to be comfortable in your own skin, even when it doesn’t conform to society’s “normal” beauty standards. I want my children to value their bodies, not judge them based on messages that seek to teach them that they should be more, less, or different. And we joke as a family that I’m “flat as a pancake” and don’t need a bra — humor is healthy.

My kids have watched me go through cancer twice, and it’s been important for me to model for them that body parts aren’t what make a person more or less worthy of being happy and whole. Losing my breasts was hard, but definitely less hard than losing my life.

I had an implant two and a half years ago and I have no regrets. My chest is scarred, but I can lift weights, hug people, sleep on my stomach – things I could barely do with implants. All 29 debilitating symptoms are gone. I often swim and exercise topless. I post photos and videos on social media reminding viewers to do self-exams and mammograms, and plead with everyone to understand that breast implants have an FDA black box warning for a reason. Breast implant disease is real and I believe it almost took my life.