Last week I reported the panic my friend and I experienced when she thought she had found a lump in the same breast that had several years ago had a cancerous lump excised. The night before her biopsy—which, if positive, would mean a mastectomy in mere days—we discussed whether or not she’d want reconstructive surgery or breast reconstruction.
Neither of us had thought much about implants. We’d both been diagnosed with early invasive breast cancer several years before and had opted for a lumpectomy. At the time, there was already so much to think about—it took me months of Internet research and phone calls to friends expert by training or experience to even begin to understand what was happening to me. It was a relief not to think about losing—and replacing—a breast as well.
There was a time, however, when I was well acquainted with silicone breast implants. When I was in high school and college, my dad used to bring home the latest of them, in a variety of sizes, displaying them on the turquoise formica kitchen counter so his family could admire his work.
He was Dr. Ralph Blocksma, a plastic surgeon practicing in Grand Rapids, Michigan, and a consultant in the development of silicone breast implants at Dow Corning. He was so excited about those implants. He felt they offered the first real relief to breast cancer patients who at that time were pretty much doomed to losing a breast. It was wonderful, he used to tell me, to do more for a woman than save her life; he also wanted to save her the anguish of disfigurement.
This was almost fifty years ago, from the mid-fifties through the early sixties, before mammograms became routine. At that time, breast cancers often reached a more advanced stage before discovery than many do today; lumpectomies were uncommon, if done at all. A breast cancer patient often was sent to a plastic surgeon, and I think my dad really suffered over being the one to disfigure a woman in order to save her life.
It was different with cleft lips and palates, another of his specialties. Most of those cases were congenital—kids born threatened with a lifetime of social ostracism—and his skills freed them to face the world. He traveled extensively abroad teaching procedures that sometimes saved children who might otherwise have not been allowed to live.
So I think my dad found a special motivation and satisfaction in helping to alleviate the suffering he was instrumental in causing. A dedicated Christian and former missionary, he was not interested in furthering the careers of show girls; his involvement in silicone implants was about alleviating the agonies of breast cancer.
I don’t know if I’d choose a silicone implant today—I haven’t really done much research on the options and my dad is no longer here to advise me—but I’m relieved to see that the FDA has approved them again and is no longer preventing a procedure that, more than most women, I am at high risk of some day needing.
Luckily, my friend does not need silicone implants or any other kind of reconstructive surgery, and nor do I. But for the first time, we are thinking about it.
Neither of us had thought much about implants. We’d both been diagnosed with early invasive breast cancer several years before and had opted for a lumpectomy. At the time, there was already so much to think about—it took me months of Internet research and phone calls to friends expert by training or experience to even begin to understand what was happening to me. It was a relief not to think about losing—and replacing—a breast as well.
There was a time, however, when I was well acquainted with silicone breast implants. When I was in high school and college, my dad used to bring home the latest of them, in a variety of sizes, displaying them on the turquoise formica kitchen counter so his family could admire his work.
He was Dr. Ralph Blocksma, a plastic surgeon practicing in Grand Rapids, Michigan, and a consultant in the development of silicone breast implants at Dow Corning. He was so excited about those implants. He felt they offered the first real relief to breast cancer patients who at that time were pretty much doomed to losing a breast. It was wonderful, he used to tell me, to do more for a woman than save her life; he also wanted to save her the anguish of disfigurement.
This was almost fifty years ago, from the mid-fifties through the early sixties, before mammograms became routine. At that time, breast cancers often reached a more advanced stage before discovery than many do today; lumpectomies were uncommon, if done at all. A breast cancer patient often was sent to a plastic surgeon, and I think my dad really suffered over being the one to disfigure a woman in order to save her life.
It was different with cleft lips and palates, another of his specialties. Most of those cases were congenital—kids born threatened with a lifetime of social ostracism—and his skills freed them to face the world. He traveled extensively abroad teaching procedures that sometimes saved children who might otherwise have not been allowed to live.
So I think my dad found a special motivation and satisfaction in helping to alleviate the suffering he was instrumental in causing. A dedicated Christian and former missionary, he was not interested in furthering the careers of show girls; his involvement in silicone implants was about alleviating the agonies of breast cancer.
I don’t know if I’d choose a silicone implant today—I haven’t really done much research on the options and my dad is no longer here to advise me—but I’m relieved to see that the FDA has approved them again and is no longer preventing a procedure that, more than most women, I am at high risk of some day needing.
Luckily, my friend does not need silicone implants or any other kind of reconstructive surgery, and nor do I. But for the first time, we are thinking about it.
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