User post: Do You Wonder What A Cancer Boob Really Looks Like After Surgery?

I woke up in the hospital room.  I was first aware of the darkness that filled the room so much I couldn't see a thing.  I had realized I was alone, and in that moment I became instantly aware of the pain I felt in my chest.  My first thought was, "OH MY G*D, WHAT DID I DO? I CHANGED MY MIND!" 

I had a bilateral mastectomy with immediate reconstruction that morning.  The surgery had taken approximately 7 hours (so I am told), and had transformed my body and my life.  I had breasts that were originally DDD and had lost their perk after many weight gains, losses, and most recently, a baby. 

I seriously began to try and figure out a way they could recover my healthy breast.  I silently scolded myself for being too extreme in my treatment choice.  I was only 31 years old.  How was I supposed to live my life suddenly looking as though I never made it to puberty? 

My chest and arms ached. Actually, ache isn't even strong enough a word. I hurt so much I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs.  The only reason I didn't was because I knew the impact of my wail would only worsen the pain. 

I fumbled in the dark to find a call button and pressed it repeatedly.  Within minutes, the call button had been gently removed from my hand and a morphine pump replaced it. "You can press this every __ minutes if you need it," the nurse told me.  I totally ignored her sentence and only listened to the part where she said, "You can press this if you need it." 

I had tried to follow the clock, but I eventually resorted to pressing it every few seconds. 

It was a hard night. 

For the next few days, I fought back.  I made the mastectomy pay for making me feel like hell (inside and out).  I walked miles around the nurse's station.  I bathed myself, I sat up, I did everything I was told to do, and then some. 

"STUPID CANCER!" I'd scream that phrase in my head every moment I was aware of pain or sadness. 

It has to be said that my warrior strength was not mine to begin with.  I had a nurse's aide who pissed me off so deeply that I let my stubborn streak kick in.  I wanted to be independent so I would not have to deal with her wrath.

"I had cancer, ya know..." My snarky and whiny inner self would whine and whine, but she pushed me like crazy. 

That aide saved me.  She was the reason I did so well because she did not pity me at all.  (note: I went to visit my hospital floor on my one year cancer-versary, and hugged her so hard I didn't think I'd ever let go.  "I hated you the day I met you," I told her through tears. She looked me straight in the eye.   "I wanted you to, I've seen too many women feel sorry for themselves, and they are the ones who stay in the hospital for much longer. You were released in 4 days! You did great!"  I whispered a thank you and never saw her again).

After the next few months of radiation and completing reconstruction, I began to hear a similar question from many women. 

"What does it look like, if you don't mind my asking?" 

Once my breasts had been removed, my humility left me as well. 

"I don't mind showing you.  Do you want to see?"

Everybody gets a little giggly and embarrassed at this point.  I take that opportunity to tell them I don't mind telling my story, and I am generally bombarded with question after question. 

Once people are comfortable talking about (whisper) "the cancer," I again tell them I don't mind if they see my "foobs."  (The breast cancer community generally refers to our new and fake boobs as "foobs"). 

Reactions are always different.  "Wow, the scar goes all the way across? Why are they so lumpy looking?  Will they be that way once you get the implant?   What do they feel like?  Does it hurt to get "expanded?"

If I had been told 4 years ago that I would eventually become the "Cancer Sucks" lady (I wear t-shirts that are custom-made for me.  They all say something about how much cancer sucks), flash complete strangers, and speak openly about intimacy questions, I would have been stunned.  I would have been horrified to even think of myself as someone that would serve as a cancer advocate. 

Yet, here I am. 

Why do I flash people my "Cancer Foobs?" Because I don't want any other woman to be diagnosed, handed a booklet with a crude ink drawing of a woman with one breast, and have to live in terror that she will never feel like a woman again.  Because I DEMAND that people learn that they MUST talk about (whisper) "the cancer".  Because I am a teacher by instinct and trade.  I want to teach as many people as I can that even though they have lost a part of their body because of cancer, they are still the same person. 

I think the biggest reason I flash my foobs is to show people the reality of breast cancer.  My foobs are not covered in cutesy pink ribbons, they are covered with a scar.  My foobs may appear to be "perky" on the outside. When inspected without anything covering them, they appear as though they resemble the top of a freshly baked hamburger bun. 

I flash to show people that breast cancer is by no means a red-carpet event, a pink can opener, and a bit scary.  Flashing my foobs hopefully teaches others that even though it is a bit scary, we can FIGHT cancer and come out victorious.