This is 6 part series about my breast cancer and reconstruction surgeries—some real talk, a bit of education, and most importantly some humor.
Saline fills, armored falsies, and the one 100cc appointment that nearly broke me.
After surgery number one, the next chapter was getting my tissue expanders filled. For those of you unfamiliar with what that means, expanders are temporary implants that slowly stretch out the skin and tissue to make room for the permanent silicone implants that come later. The expanders were like hard little turtle shells (made of thick silicon with a metal port) under the skin—except not as cute, and definitely not welcome. And, in my case, they were sutured to the chest wall. No wonder they hurt like hell.
I got filled four times. Each time, it was 50cc of saline on each side, except for the third fill, when we went up to 100cc—and let me tell you, that extra 50cc was absolutely brutal. The feeling of your skin and tissue stretching out like that? It’s not exactly a “this is fun!” moment. It was like being a human balloon, and honestly, not in the way I had ever dreamed.
The whole process was a strange kind of torture. I was given the numbing injections before the procedure, but even with that, the pressure was immense. My chest felt like it was being pulled in every direction, like a rubber band stretched to the max. Each fill made me feel heavier, more swollen, and a bit more defeated. But the thing is, you have to keep going. There’s no choice. So, after each session, I’d put on a brave face and tell myself, “One more fill.”
What made it a bit more bearable? The occasional laugh with the nurse, the humor in the situation, and the understanding that this was part of the process. I was going to get to a place where the tissue expanders would eventually be replaced by something that resembled the real deal. At least I hoped.
Then came the fourth fill. By this point, the 50cc was just routine. But after that third fill of 100cc? I could barely keep my eyes open for the rest of the day. It hurt. A lot. And it wasn’t the kind of pain that’s easily forgotten. It stayed with me for hours, a constant reminder that my body wasn’t just healing—it was being force-fed more discomfort to make way for something better.
