A Recollection of My Reconstruction

March 2020 was a highly anticipated time for me, not because of the impending pandemic mind you, but because it was the month I would finally be switching out my “tissue expanders” for my very own pair of silicone YABOS, as Thora Birch’s character would say in Hocus Pocus. In other words, it was finally time to get my permanent breast implants placed under my skin, thus ending my surgery journey with breast cancer. Well, at least that was the idea.

Everything went as well as it could for my surgery. I have a weird complex where I kinda enjoy the surgery day because it feels like everyone is there just for YOU. I know, it sounds a little eek. But I guess when it comes to all the parts of cancer that can be so scary and LONELY, it feels very encouraging to be in a room full of your doctors who know you and are there to give you what you want. Even the music playing as I was wheeled into the operation room was my choice! I believe I crumbled under the pressure and blurted out Hanson as an artist choice, only I was hoping it would be more of a deep cut like Where’s the Love or Penny and Me, but of course they went with MmmBop. That’s fine! Just slightly embarrassing to have my hot plastic surgeon hear that right before I fall asleep and he cuts into me.

Anyone who’s had major surgery will understand this: you have to take off all your clothes, right? They give you a robe and either no bottoms or, as with me, there was a pair of paper pants I could put on as well. Now, here’s the thing…when you wake up after surgery…you are no longer in those same clothes. Inevitably someone has removed your top for surgery, and I mean I guess my bottoms too?? And they dress your anesthesia-d body up like you’re a life-sized rag doll, and they probably toss you onto your gurney and wait for you to wake up! The idea mortifies me and makes me giggle.

Four years ago was the first step towards me getting to move forward from a life intercepted by cancer. That wasn’t the last surgery I had, however. Again, I know it might not make sense to everyone, but for those who get it, I know you’ll get it. But, I was somewhat unhappy with the outcome of my original reconstruction surgery. There was some rippling on the top of my breast that was alarming and though very normal, it was enough to ask to try and fix it. And, okay here’s the other funny thing, I kind of sort of wanted ‘em a little bigger. You have to understand, when you have to get your breasts removed, the ones you spent 27 years with for crying out loud, you can be a little lost with what your new body should look like. They’ll never ever look natural again, so part of me wanted to finally live out a, umm hefty chesty life? I just made that up I swear to God. We went bigger! And I did some fat grafting (lipo in the thighs) to help the rippling and soften the edges of the implants.

I spent a solid two years with my Big Gals before I couldn’t take it anymore. The back pain, the way none of my clothes fit or even new clothes would fit in my body but have no room for these ladies, the internalized indoctrinated shame I felt having such things on “display” all the time…I didn’t feel like me anymore. It was fun for a little while, but I knew I had to go back to Hot Surgeon and have them switched out again. We went smaller and I feel much better. The only problem still, I think I want to go even smaller. And at the end of the day, I know this is a lot of surgeries that to some might seem “frivolous” if you can even say that. But, I didn’t choose this “boob job,” so I see this more as the chance to really go for what is going to make me the most whole. After cancer and a double mastectomy, getting your revision to be as close to perfect as you can gives you back a little bit of your control.

So, four years since my reconstruction and revision journey started…we’ve gone through a pandemic and a whole lot of…eh depressing stuff…in those four years. But in the grand scheme that’s only a fraction of time. In theory I could get one more revision and have those implants for 20 years before it’s time to swap them out! I’ll continue looking to that future, me and my Perky Puppies.

10 Years Since England

10 years ago I went across the pond for the first, and so far only, time. I don’t really remember who convinced me to go, but I asked my dad if I could use my financial aid return on the trip and he said yes! So, I quickly began recruiting all my friends to go with me, leaving behind our boyfriends and families for 3 weeks as we galavanted across Bath, London, and the Queen Mary II in the prime of our lives. The trip was technically a study abroad program but none of us actually needed the credits for any classes. We just wanted to see plays, visit the museums, and, you know, go clubbing til 4 in the morning while our professor chaperones tried to not worry.

10 years ago, I had finished my first year in my theatre program and was still making friends with the group I would go on to spend 3 very dramatic and hilarious weeks with. I was nervous because my IBS at the time was not very managed and I worried so much that my stomach would always be hurting or I’d miss the performance at The Globe because I was in the bathroom. I ended up being just fine, but in hindsight, I know I kept myself from certain hangs because I didn’t want to risk it. I like to think that I’ve become much more comfortable in who I am (stomach issues and all) that I would be a little more involved and take more risks. But if I’m going to talk about hindsight and missing out, I should mention that I was also in a new relationship and very in the ~in love~ stage that made 3 weeks abroad so long! I found myself spending a whole day we had to wander around London, gulp, in my hotel room Facetiming my boyfriend with *not free internet. Shameful! It’s truly shameful and the main thing I would go back and slap 21 year old Jillian for.

Aside from the things I’d change, there were so many fun memories I hold onto now. Our first night out, the whole group went and found a bar/club that stayed open til 4 am (sweet baby angels’ first ever 4 am bar??) and we made friends with the security guards at the door who were smitten with us and our American accents. We ate it up! The downstairs was more of a club and I kid you not, they played multiple songs from Grease. Of course we loved it. We shared shots of something very green and I was at a picky stage of alcohol so I kept looking for a blue or pink drink (I know I know), and I took my first (and last) jägerbomb! We were young and truly so full of energy. That first week in Bath was my favorite because we got to really get our bearings on the area and, as theatre kids, we really loved the attention of being the only tourists in the clubs. London was already so full of a million other tourists that we didn’t feel that special, nor did we really have the time to go out since we were seeing so many shows and museums there. Bath was the shit. Beautiful architecture, small town energy, amazing shopping, and we got to stay in the Elton House which was such a unique experience in itself.

As college kids, we still had our fair share of drama we packed with us. Friends who maybe didn’t stay as close after we landed back in America, hook-ups in rooms that may or may not have had someone else sleeping in them, crying in public spa pools, we covered a lot of ground in the drama department! But I gained several life long friendships from going on that trip. Even 10 years later, I love that we shared that experience. It was a once in a lifetime adventure, and then we got to spend a week at sea on the QM2, sailing the exact path that the Titanic once sailed (eek)! We got to scour the costume department at our school for gowns and our costume and makeup professor Jeffery would do our hair in fabulous styles every night. We would have beautiful dinners with white-gloved waiters who offered so much bread it became an inside joke. We got room service in the middle of the night, attempted a work out class (hah), and did our best to avoid falling over due to the waves on the last day before we docked in New York. I’ll never forget the Grand Marnier soufflé I had one night for dessert. It haunted me until for my 30th birthday I finally made it myself. And it was GOOD. I haven’t done much traveling in my life (hey there missing passport), and I’m sure everyone has an opinion on the “best” places or only going places once so you can instead discover new places, but I would go back to Bath. I’d go back to London too and maybe spend more time in the actual town instead of museums. And hell, I’d go back on the Queen Mary!

Looking back, I can’t believe it’s been 10 years, though I know I’ve changed and grown in countless ways since then. 10 years ago, I didn’t know how much it would mean to me now, having that special memory of a time that not everyone gets to experience. It’s a good time to start planning another adventure…and reapplying for a passport.

Failing Miserably

This will be my third or fourth attempt at creating my own website and putting it on the interwebz. Every time before, the same ending always prevailed. I would get so frustrated with how hard Squ***sp*** is to use and I would feel lacking in my credits or artistic contributions to society that I would let the site expire without renewing it and without ever even publishing it. I would give up, and I became comfortable with that.

In my most recent attempt at starting this thing up again, I’ve had either an epiphany or divine intervention or a simple lack of Fs to give anymore for what horror could await me if I made a mistake on the internet or if someone out there judged me. I’m finally opening myself back up to the idea of “failing miserably.” My acting teacher in college used this phrase with us quite a bit, and outside of the Meisner technique and crying in a closet as your classmate pretends to need to get grandma’s ring back from you, I think it can apply to pretty much most things in life. If you’re going to put yourself/art/work out there in the world, then you need to prepare to fail. And failing is a part of life. So if you’re going to fail, and you will, then fail miserably. Lean into the failure. I don’t mean be pitiful, but go ALL IN on what you’re doing so that there is no doubt that you tried and you put your effort into it fully. So when you fail, again because you will, at least you can say you failed in a big fat MISERABLE way. Does that make sense?

So as I prepare to click “post,” I feel at peace finally that I have let myself get this far with this site that is years delayed for fear of failing at it. Only instead, now, I’m prepared for that and I’m leaning into it. I look forward to this being the momentum I need to fail miserably at a whole bunch more things. ;)