"I Kicked Breast Cancer's Ass" Part 2: Fighting Breast Cancer My Way

By Sofia Quintero

Sofia Quintero is a Puerto Rican-Dominican author, filmmaker and educator and most recently, cancer warrior. She was diagnosed with breast cancer in January 2012.

"Don't shave your head! Why don't you just wait and see? La tia de fulano did chemo, and her hair didn't fall out." Almost everyone in my family said it.

But once I learned my treatment called for surgery followed by chemotherapy, I insisted on defying my relatives and shaving my head before I lost my hair. Allow a clump of hair to end up in my fist while tossing it seductively at the chulo in the bookstore? Ni lo piensa! I'd be damned if I gave cancer that much power.

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So first off to Fekkai SoHo to cut off eight inches of natural curl into a Hallesque do. Next: gather some girlfriends for a ceremony to have each cut off a lock before the Big Buzz. They would create a healing circle both to ease the loss and imbue it with positive meaning. Cancer, not only did you pick the wrong bitch, but she also rolls deep.

For a woman like me, becoming a cancer survivor meant not being a full-time patient. My personal triumph demanded that I not rely solely on conventional medicine or question my femininity. As a result, I received Reiki and acupuncture at You Can Thrive!, a breast cancer support center. To embrace my femininity, I enrolled in a workshop at Pink Light Burlesque, a program that offers free classes to breast cancer patients and survivors.

But cancer simultaneously changes everything and nothing. I am blessed to have a loving family as sojourners on my return towellness, but fighting breast cancer my way isn't always their way. Take my mother who fought and survived breast cancer when I was 31. She dutifully did whatever her doctor instructed her to including 25 rounds of radiation then completely blocked out the experience until I was diagnosed with the same disease 12 years later.

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My illness is far harder on Mama Warrioress than it is on me, especially when my decisions undermine the ways she wants-perhaps even needs-to mother me right now. For example, when I adopted a Black supremacist diet - if it's white, it ain't right - Ma's primary source of comfort, a huge sartén de arroz con gandules, Dominican rice and pigeon peas, got cut. Being a good mom, she wants to accompany me to chemo, but she burst into tears at my first infusion. Because my intuition says Take that chair in good cheer, I veto her insistence on coming. Nine infusions thus far without a lick of nausea confirm that I'm right to stand my ground as difficult as it is. My baldness - to me an affirmation of my rebirth - only reminds Ma of how her "change of life" baby was born with a full head of hair that never fell out.

At my pre-surgical consult, Ma even attempted to direct my surgeon to perform a lumpectomy to conserve my breast. The old Sofia would have rolled her eyes and kicked herself for allowing her to sit in. Instead, the healing me, "Cancer-free Fi," placed my hand gently on her arm and respectfully said, "Ma, this is my decision." Then I turned to my surgeon and said, "I want to proceed with the mastectomy."

And I have no regrets. Tending to my mastectomy scar has become a ritual in self-love. I look in the mirror as I gently clean the incision, thanking my body for prevailing through this crisis and forgivingmyself for taking it for granted. One morning as I put on a turquoise tank with lace shirring, I genuinely appreciated the beauty in my new asymmetry. I look forward to reconstruction, but I'm in no rush. My sense of wellness now trumps conventional standards of beauty, and in the words of Dr. David Simon, I have come to love my newly healthy body - scars and asymmetry, implants and amputations - not despite cancer but because of it.

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As I heal on my own terms, my family and their ideas shift. When my sister Betty said, "Pa told me he's going to shave his head, too," it surprised me because he was the lead singer of the "wait-and-see" chorus that believed chemo would spare my hair. I canceled the hair-cutting ceremony and instead asked el Negro to take me to Junco's, his barbershop since 1959. Junco gave my brother Tony his first cut and then later cut his oldest son's hair, so why not keep the family tradition? It was just like me to turn the Big Buzz into an opportunity to defy traditional gender norms. And el Negro only scratched his head, then shaved it to support my decision.

And although I still get the side-eye when I take the supplements and sip the herbal teas that my naturopaths prescribe, Mama Warrioress now not only makes fresh juice for me, she also enjoys a glass herself.

Because cancer changes everything and nothing, I still fantasize about performing burlesque again before undergoing reconstructive surgery. Sometimes I'm a Dahomey Amazon, women who were rumored to remove one breast so they could be more effective archers and therefore warriors. Other times I am Bonnie Parker, robbing banks to fund cutting-edge breast cancer activists such as Breast Cancer Action. No matter the concept, the act always ends with my freeing myself of confining pink ribbons and proudly unveiling my mastectomy scar.

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