I am part pig.
When I was diagnosed with cancer and opted (fortuitously) for mastectomy with reconstruction instead of wire-guided lumpectomy my consultant used adermal cellular matrix (ADM) to make a pocket for the silicon implant. ADM is specially prepared pig intestine and in the UK it’s expensive, so much so that the Chief Executive of the healthcare trust had to approve my consultant’s plea, prise open the NHS coffers and sign a purchase order for another few thousand pounds worth of cancer treatment on top of some equally expensive Herceptin.
I feel hugely grateful that my consultant went above and beyond to get the right materials for reconstruction, and that she’s so skilled and up to date with plastic/microsurgery techniques. She is truly amazing in all senses of the word. At another level I remain somewhat conflicted because an intelligent and sensitive creature gave up its life so that mine might one day return to something approximating normal. That creature – a specially bred pig – didn’t get the ‘tick here to opt out’ box and as a result part of it is now very much a part of me.
On Monday I returned for my annual follow-up and “what next” discussion. Cosmetically there is plenty of tidying up that could be done but I’m not bothered about aesthetics. For me what next has always been removal of the other, “good,” breast before it starts wreaking a trail of destruction through my life. I know too many women whose “good” breast went “bad” after being assured contralateral breast cancer is very unusual. It’s nowhere near as unusual as they or I would wish. For my consultant the original priority was to get rid of the active cancer and start systemic treatment. High grade HER2+ tumours have a propensity to spread and on balance I conceded that dealing with active cancer was our joint priority; we’d return to other potential sources of untimely death later on, when my life wasn’t so readily at stake.
Later on happened to be Monday when we went back through the roll call of women in my family who’ve died of breast cancer at 50 or younger. The list is depressing, more cataclysmic disaster than family tree and although I’m now well versed in talking about it from an emotionally safe distance it retains an ability to trigger unwelcome thoughts and pitiful images. Things I’d rather not recall.
Multiple generations – 8 or more women – wiped out by breast cancer leaves the current generation (me) increasingly convinced that highly predictable trends seldom stem from random coincidence. I am and always have been in a very high risk group. Two decades attempting to convince various GP’s something is amiss in my version of the human genome and finally my consultant declared point blank that she too is absolutely convinced. Coincidences on this scale are not coincidental – her words, not mine. Whilst she’s optimistic science will unravel the faults in my DNA within the next 5 years she’s mindful that 5 years waiting for another high risk (highly predictable?) cancer event to materialise is unacceptable. We’ll be going to theatre again, the fourth time together, just as soon as a slot for surgery comes up. We’ll also be calling on another of our porcine friends so silicon implant no. 2 has a suitable pocket to rest in.
Once this surgery is complete I’ll definitely be ‘this little piggie,’ more pig and plastic than human female. The thought is both comforting and disconcerting.
I stand facing another major surgery which is not without consequences. There’s a chance untoward change is already happening in there (we have to cross that particular bridge if we come to it). There’s a chance things might go wrong – infection, haemorrhaging, skin death. Even if all goes well the surgery doesn’t come with an ‘opt out of breast cancer forever’ guarantee, it reduces risk, not the same as removing risk entirely. Ideally no other animal would have to lay down its life for me but it seems that’s an unavoidable part of this cancer dance too. I guess one way or another the unlucky pig would’ve ended up consumed by humans. At least this way it won’t be turned into sausages…