The Downside I Didn't Expect

I smelled pretty bad the first week after surgery. I couldn’t take a bath or a shower because half my chest was wrapped in bandaging that couldn’t get wet. I tried to wash my armpits with a damp washcloth, but it didn’t go very well. My right arm was so sore and weak that I couldn’t reach my left armpit at the right angle or scrub with appropriate vigor. On the other hand (literally,) my left arm worked okay, but my right armpit was so tender that I could hardly bear the lightest pressure with the washcloth. Also, I didn’t get the cloth very wet because I didn’t want it to drip down onto my bandage.

To compound the problem, I think pain must make your sweat smell worse than usual. Like fear, it must trigger a different chemical balance in your body. I’ve heard hunters say that the best venison is from deer that were surprised by the shot. If they are munching peacefully in a meadow when they die, they taste better than deer who were startled and tried to escape. I believe it. I did not smell like I was peacefully munching in a meadow.

As I started healing, I was able to wash more insistently. Also, when I stopped taking the drugs, I started remembering to use deodorant more often. I still smelled bad, but I figured it wasn’t anything a hot shower wouldn’t fix. I had to wait 7 days for that pleasure.

The first day I was able to stand under running hot water was like heaven. I have never been so grateful for modern conveniences. It pulled out the aches and tensions from a week of lying on the sofa in awkward suture-sensitive positions. It erased seven days worth of flaky scalp and made me feel like there was hope that I would actually feel good in my body again someday. But, it didn’t solve the odor problem. Just a few hours later I was wafting like a piece of overripe fruit.

I tried not to worry about it. After all, I didn’t have to go to work and I wasn’t spending time with anyone who didn’t already love me. Also, I secretly love the way my armpits smell when they are a little sweaty. I think this is because of the way I was raised. When I was a tiny baby, my family lived far from civilization in a hippie outpost of self-built houses and minimal technology. There was no electricity, telephone or plumbing. It was a humid climate. I imagine my mom’s armpits were healthily damp most of the time she was holding me in her arms. I look kind of like my mom. I bet I smell kind of like her too. So, I reason, the smell of my own armpits probably triggers some deep subconscious memory of being held and safe and fed and happy and loved. But, as I don’t expect anyone else to have this pleasant response to my particular scent, I am anxious for it to go away.

I am now in the third week of healing from my mastectomy. I am able to wash like a normal person. I use the same underarm deodorant I’ve been using for years. I took a long hot shower last night and indulged myself with scrubby gloves and a delicious tangerine body-wash that arrived in one of the many care packages I’ve received lately. I didn’t do anything afterwards but eat supper and go to bed. I haven’t done anything this morning but sip tea and type. And yet, my armpits are overpowering. I smell like I’m wearing a used jogging bra from last week. I smell like a construction worker in Alabama in August. I smell like I will never land another professional job, or get asked out on another date, for the rest of my life.

It suddenly dawned on me that maybe this odor extravaganza has something to do with the four lymph nodes removed during my operation. I did a sniff test on my left. Nothing. I breathed deeper and got a hint of a light, clean, slightly soapy scent. I smell like a girl. I smell like a nice girl you would bring home to meet your grandmother. I turned to the right. I smell like a goat. Actually, I’ve never smelled a goat. Maybe I am being unfair to goats. Maybe they smell better than this.

In none of the literature I’ve read, or in any of my conversations with other survivors, was I told to expect this. Maybe my body will adjust. Maybe my remaining lymph nodes will learn to compensate. Maybe lymph nodes have nothing to do with how a body smells and I am just imagining this. I’ll let you know if I figure out a solution. In the meantime, please only sniff me on my left side. If you’re dyslexic, don’t worry, it’s easy to tell which side is my left without even thinking about it. It’s the side with a boob on it.