you have every right to be mad

Well guys, those other two spots?

Fucking cancer.

That’s right. The thing I didn’t want it to be. Over the phone. Some more awesome news to just darken my day, “I think you need a mastectomy of that breast.”

Oh great, the thing I thought I should have just done from the beginning I get to do. If I’m doing 1 I’m doing 2. Why should I spend the rest of my life in fear? In complete paralyzation?

Take them both, I said. Right Away.

My doctor called on a Tuesday to tell me these results mind you because she knew I was meeting with her on a Thursday. Super sweet to tell me I have cancer so I can digest it and actually have a conversation with her the day I see her. What even is my life right now?

So, I put a date on the calendar. 7.1.22. The day my breasts go bye bye. I’m thinking of having a bye bye boobs party. Is that in bad taste? All my humor is apparently in bad taste. I’ve been told many times by my husband that not everyone is as dark as I. And I suppose he’s right. I mean my current belief is that we live in a simulation and once you figure out that you live in a simulation, the person running the show hits the kill switch and it’s up to them how you die. I don’t know. It makes me laugh. Apparently it doesn’t make lots of other people laugh. But I say whatever gets you through right?

I mean I’m having a part of my body amputated. Optionally. I mean not really optionally. Otherwise I get cancer and die. So yeah, sort of forcefully. But these things that have been with me for a while have to leave.

I was a stick growing up. Skinny and no boobs. I wished and I prayed. I don’t know why, I guess I just always wanted to look sexy. Which sounds self-indulgent. But I like to feel sexy. Always have. Not ashamed that I like boys to look at me. And girls. I digress. When I went to college freshman year, I had no boobs. When I came back that summer, I had boobs. Like massive boobs. Like went from size B to double D boobs. And my friend, who I was hooking up with, said, “wow, when’d you get those?”

My boobs have had a life man. A really strong 15 year career in helping me get what I want in situations where boobs help you get what you want.

Then my babies were born and man they sucked the life out of them. Breastfeeding was not simple. And once again my breasts were the center of lots of people’s attention. I used to breastfeed wherever and whenever I wanted without my cover. It’s dinnertime ladies and gents, deal with my tits. They aren’t for your sexual enjoyment they’re to feed my fucking kid. Forgive me for wanting to sustain a life. Scratch that, I’m not apologizing for feeding my kids! These breastfeeders were also pretty loud and proud. Of course after the two of my kids, they are now lopsided and completely deflated, basically halfway down my body. But I still don’t hate them. They are soft and squishy and very well-loved. I guess they’ve been used as much as humanly possible. I don’t really even like them to be touched as it is so whatever.

And yet, when I think about the fact that they’ll be gone. I cry.

I can’t stop fucking crying.

Or saying fuck.

I do apologize for my language. I just honestly can’t think of any additional words that express my feelings so utterly and completely.

My daughter isn’t going to see what she will look like in my body. She’s almost two and she will have no memory of what it currently looks like. She’ll have to find other physical role models. And she will. I just wish I could be that person for her.

I’m going to become numb. In places. Where my nipples are gone and where the implants are. The way I currently feel touch in that area is going to completely change. I have no concept as to how I will feel my babies when they lie on me, or hug me, or climb on me. And that is terrifying. Because it is unknown.

There’s going to be some time, where I am incapable of the physical things I’m currently capable of. And I may never be able to do a push up again. I mean I guess that’s not the worst thing that could happen but you never know what you will miss until it might be gone!!!

I’m just scared.

I know most is fear of the unknown. And the devil you don’t know is really fucking scary.

But I don’t need chemo. And it hasn’t spread. And there are so many things to be thankful for. I just wish I could stop crying so much.

I’ve always been an emotional human being. Over-emotional. My husband is my balance. He doesn’t show that much emotion even though he definitely feels it. And, in the past when I’ve cried, he’ll go numb and not know what to say. But when I cry about this, he says

“You’re going to have these days. And it’s ok”.

And that makes me feel seen. And like it’s justified. And even though there are moments when I can’t breathe and panic attacks lurk around each corner, I can pinpoint the exact cause of my distress. And that is insanely comforting. Because there used to be times when I couldn’t pinpoint the cause of my distress and that was even more distressing. I feel sane. It is sane to feel crazy and scared about cancer. It is sane to have to cry for 20 minutes one day at home alone before you pick up your kid. It is sane to have a couple of tequila shots at night to stop the scary thoughts. Cancer is unexpected, unwanted and unjustified. You have every right to be mad.