Ved et tilfælde faldt jeg over denne film.
Jeg kender den ikke i forvejen – den er en smule speciel (men, det er jo heller ikke et “nemt emne at behandle”) Men giv den en chance – den bliver bedre halvvejs ind i filmen. De kunne sagtens have “gået dybere”, men der er ikke mange film på området, så jeg siger ja tak med kyshånd til enhver.
Jeg vil i hvert fald gerne dele den.
Her er dokumentaren bag, den kan måske være god at se først, sådan lidt baggrundsviden:
Og her er filmen så:
Lidt inspireret af filmen deler jeg et par links jeg også har fundet. Jeg tænkte ikke selv på det med at “sige farvel” til mine bryster inden jeg fik foretaget dobbelt mastektomi operationen, men det giver god mening, synes jeg. Jeg har selv tænkt på at skrive et brev til dem bagefter – selv til min livmoder og æggestokke. Men det er stadig undervejs. Måske det kunne hjælpe andre. Synes idéen fra filmen er virkelig sød også; At få lavet en afstøbning af brysterne.
Her er listen fra filmen ligeså:
1.Name Your Breasts
2. Get a Breast Facial
3. Buy a Farewell Outfit
4. Photograph Your Breasts
5. Make and Paint a Plaster Cast(Mold) of Breasts
6. Visit a BRCA Support Group
7. Write Them A Letter
8. Let The World Say Goodbye
Og et par links:
Perhaps there is nothing more emotionally trying for a woman than learning that the cost of the breast cancer she has will cost her her breasts. Knowing that this distinctive and defining part of her body will be removed forever can be completely overwhelming. Many women have shared that the emotions they feel when facing mastectomy range from depression and sadness to joy and a sense of freedom knowing that this is a step in ridding her body of cancer.
Because there is so much feeling and emotion that accompanies a mastectomy, some women have found that finding a way to say goodbye to their breasts helps them cope with the situation better. Here are a few ideas of how to say goodbye to your breasts:
1. Throw a Party
As weird as it might seem to celebrate just before a moment of significant loss, some women have found it very empowering to have a send off party for their breasts. Rather than dwelling on the negative aspect of losing your breasts, this can be a defining moment that allows you to feel strength and courage for taking the future of your health into your own hands. A party for your breasts really turns into a celebration of you as a person, your life and your determination to defeat cancer.
2. Write a Letter
Another way of saying goodbye to your breasts is to write them a letter. This allows you to document and record the many feelings you may be having. It’s incredible how emotionally liberating it can be to write your thoughts and feelings down. Write down memories you have your breasts, from the development stage to the first time you used them to feed your child. Experts in psychiatry say that being able to write a goodbye letter to breasts has an overall positive impact on your ability to handle the emotions of losing them to a mastectomy.
Here is a sample goodbye letter if you need some ideas: http://www.edeneatseverything.com/i-goodbye-letter-to-my-boobs/
3. Boudoir Photo Shoot
A sexy photo shoot of you showing off your breasts and body is a great way to celebrate yourself while capturing a final memory with your breasts. Many women find that a boudoir photo shoot is something every woman should do regardless of their breast cancer gene. It helps to instill confidence and self-esteem in a moment of despair.
Once your mastectomy is complete, talk to Dr. Richard J. Brown about the breast reconstruction services he offers and has helped so many other women with. Reconstruction can restore a sense of wholeness and helps patients continue on with their lives. Call 480-947-2455 to set up your initial consultation.
Og her et slags “farvel-brev”, lidt som jeg selv havde i tankerne:
A Goodbye Letter To My Boobs
In a few hours, I will be getting a preventative double mastectomy as I carry a gene that puts me at an 87% chance of developing cancer. A mastectomy would reduce my chances to less than 5%.
Here’s my farewell letter to my boobs.
But before we part, I would like to thank you.
Thanks for growing in (even if it was a little late).
Thank you for making me feel sexy and attractive.
Thank you for scoring me free drinks.
Thank you for distracting guys and sparing me awkward eye-contact with them.
Thank you for being squishy and providing a pillow for pets and past boyfriends.
Thank you nipples, for telling me when it’s cold. You guys are the more reliable than any weather app.
Thank you cleavage, for catching stray snacks. I’ll never forget that one time I dropped an M&M and you caught it so perfectly.
However, dear boobs, we must part.
I know this may sound shocking to you, as you haven’t tried to kill me yet, but I know you’re planning on it.
Like the boobs of all the women in my family, you are beautiful, but deadly. Breast cancer has taken away my mother and grandmother.
I can’t let it take me.
I need to live a long and healthy life, because my parents didn’t get that chance.
I will not fall into the pattern of my family. I will be the pioneer, I will dodge that breast cancer bullet.
You will be replaced by two implants that I hope I’ll learn to love just as much as I’ve loved you.
Actually come to think of it….this isn’t really a goodbye, more like a swap.
I will continue using my cleavage to get free stuff.
I will still be feminine and hopefully still feel sexy.
I thought saying goodbye would be a lot harder
I’ll even try not to call my new boobs “fake” because children that are adopted aren’t called “fake children”.
I guess I’m just saying goodbye to the boobs I was born with.
We’ve had a good run, but I’ve got a life to live and no room for cancer in it.
Jeg har linket denne artikel før, men her er den igen, for jeg finder den virkelig rørende:
Today is the day. I am a member of the surgical team who will take care of you — the team that will remove your breast to treat the cancer that has tried to make a home in your body. We all have our role today, and the world would see yours to be the “patient.” I see it as something more: a powerful gift to us.
Because you remind us why we do what we do.
Today will feel sterile and scary. And I am sorry for that.
I wish there were a better way. Today we will ask you to take all your clothes off and put in their place a gown. Women before you have worn it. Women after you will wear it. Be sure to ask for warm blankets, because we always have plenty. We will ask of you your blood type, your medical history, your allergies. We will ask you to lie down in a bed that’s foreign to you. We will have to poke you so that we can start an IV.
You will meet many nurses, doctors, and hospital employees. We will write down important things for you to know. Your surgeon will see you soon. He will have to mark the breast we are having to remove today.
We will take you into the Operating Room — a room only few have seen. There will be bright lights, lots of metal, instruments that you’ve never seen, and we will be dressed in gowns, gloves, and masks. Over our masks, we hope you can see our eyes reassuring you as you go off to sleep.
Today is the day you will have to say goodbye to a part of your body, a part of yourself.
Your breast has felt the warmth of a lover’s caress, has fed your child with life-sustaining milk and connection. You have many memories stored in your breast, stories none of us today know about. Somehow I wish I knew them.
And yet. Here we are. We must do our rituals. We must scrub our arms and hands with alcohol so that we can fight off infection before we start. We don our gowns, our gloves, our masks. We must drape your body in blue.
You are exposed. And unconscious. And it must be difficult to trust. I honor you, Dear One.
My job is to help your surgeon take away the cancer. I get a bird’s eye view of the process. The surgery begins and I feel your warm skin through my gloves. I wonder what stories you already have and the ones that are yet to come.
We carefully remove your breast. It never gets easy to see or to do. You must know this. It never feels natural, it never feels cavalier. It feels sacred to me. Every. Single. Time.
I look down and see your pectoralis major — the big muscle behind your breast. A source of strength. It is beautiful and shiny. Sometimes it contracts a little bit while we work. Sometimes the muscle is bright red and young. Sometimes the muscle is faded a little. But it is always strong. I like to gently touch it withmy fingers. Because I feel your strength there.
We must send your breast away now. It officially leaves your body. I always feel an ache in my gut in that moment. There is no way for you to fully prepare for this day, Dear One.
I like to think that your body is already healing, as we close the incision we had to make.
Sewing your skin back together feels like I’m helping a little. But I know it’s actually all you doing the work. Even as you sleep, Dear One.
We will put a bandage on your incision. We will wake you up. We will tell you everything went well. But the road is just beginning for you.
I saw you today.
You are beautiful.
You are strong.
Thank you for entrusting me and my colleagues with your most intimate moments. I am honored to be a witness to this phase of your life.
Because now the healing begins. Now the grief is in full force. Now your breast is gone and in its place is a memory.
I watch you as you wake up. And I want to make it all go away. I can’t. Today your body underwent a transformation. And today our team took care of your body. I hope we took care of your heart, too.
There is nothing we can say or do to make it go away. But please know that I care. We care. Behind our masks and gowns are heavy hearts and sometimes tears.
Yours are a gift today. Because you remind us of human resilience. You remind us of strength. You remind us of trust.
I saw you today.
You are beautiful.
You are strong.
I will not forget.
—Niki, your Nurse Practitioner First Assistant on the Surgical Team
Jeg afslutter aftenens post med et citat fra filmen:
“You´re doing the smart thing.”
“If it´s so smart, shouldn´t I feel good?”
“No. Smart things usually hurts the worst”