boobblog

[boobblog]

5/30/25

It's been a while weird online journal/book/blog friend. I called in today. I’m not happy about it, despite wanting to call in literally every day since I’ve been back at work. Anytime I don't go in feels like a failure. This time, though Luke called in for me because I’m not ok. Boy Howdy, we've been giving it hell though and I have been trying, and faking it. I just can’t get to the "make it" part of that saying. And that's why I'm not happy, because I NEEDED the day off, and again, I was ignoring it.

Is that weird? It feels so weird saying my husband called in for me, like he’s my parent. But, it’s exactly that reason that I recognized how not OK I am. For right now anyway. Again. I’m just real pissed. About all of it and whatever "this" phase is, truly sucks on new levels of suckery.

The day I heard I was cancer free was so exciting, it felt like the world was brand new. I was also brand new, and so excited to get back to normal. Sure, I still know how to do all the things, I’ve always been able to do. I am fully aware that I have the ability to do them. But the intentions behind them, the drive to do them and the person doing the things is different. My wants and needs change before I can even begin to pick up any semblance of structure. It’s scary. Because that day was like a rebirth and I’m the little bald baby. But Cancer Free!

So I’m struggling with needing structure and stability and to just go to work. While instantly reverting back into the old habits of not listening to my body. Yay capitalism!!

I’m also scared. What if it comes back? One of my husbands students just lost their mother. The day before graduation. That’s not fair or just. Why do I get to stay and not her? Is the only difference “time”? Or was it because I had more access and opportunities to quicker treatment? Which is also time related.

(and systemically designed to prevent black and brown people from receiving healthcare because we live in a racist nation...in case you were wondering)

Time isn’t real. Listen, we made it up for super valid reasons, don’t get me wrong. But, if the justification for me being alive is simply because of chance and luck, then I’m not convinced. It’s not enough to make any of this kind of suffering worth it. Yea I said it, suffering. It's the only word that can encompass the complexity of navigating our current situation. And regardless of how relieved and grateful I am, to be here. Here is not easy.

I have an endless list of “things” contributing to just how exhausted I am. But, I think people are tired of hearing about it. I noticed I say something about my cancer everyday, any time I think of it really. So I’ll leave the mitigating factors out for now.

While editing I had a thought:

We know when you are uncomfortable with the conversation. We know when the affirmations are forced, or when an attempt at placating is made. We know, and it's more offensive than being honest. We know that if you were being honest you would say "I'm uncomfortable and/or lack empathy, so in my selfish attempt at caring I'm just going to make you feel unwelcome." Sit with that and do better. I suppose that is a little aggressive, and possibly offensive but I will not apology for existing. Because I was allowed to exist, even after Mother Fucking Cancer.

Back on track on:

Essentially, by no fault but my own, I feel pressure to go back to normal. I don’t know how to go back and be who I was before cancer. I also want to make it explicitly clear that I am not dwelling on the fact that I had cancer. It’s not a concept that I can’t get over. Physiologically I am a different person who just happens to look fairly similar to how she did a year ago. But, I will not deny the fact that things needed to change before cancer, and things need to change after cancer.

I hate to admit when I can’t do something, I do realize I say “I CANT!” all the time but, those of you that know me know how I say it. But I’ve encountered some things that I just can’t do anymore.

I can’t afford to be so hard on myself for not being OK. I can’t afford to not prioritize myself anymore. I can’t afford to see our struggles as failures anymore.

So you see, I do need Luke to make some decisions for me and tell me to get my ass back in bed and everything is going to work out. Because, I’m still learning how to take care of myself.

Next week, I try again.

[boobblog]

My Dude

You know what I've been thinking about lately? Obviously not, that's dumb to say in this method... noted. Focus...

Tomorrow is my 4th anniversary with my best friend. I wanted to try to put into words how much love I have for him, but in order to do that I need to give y'all examples of the Luke only I get to see, because I need the world to know how amazing he is.

Yesterday I had to have emergency surgery. During my mastectomy I had tissue expanders placed. The purpose was to create a cavity for a breast to be created in it's place once I finish my treatment. Since that day, 11/13/24, I have not felt good. Imagine constant nausea, extreme fatigue and malaise. Bathing took me out! My incisions opened up fully and slowly exposed my expanders to air. Essentially my body was rejecting the expanders, so they had to go immediately. Hence surgery on a Sunday.

I've told you all explicitly about my body image issues especially how I feel about my boobs. I NEVER wanted to be flat. I have enough mental diagnoses to work on, I could not take that one as well. Guess what? I'm flat. I totally understand why the decision was made, I agreed to it, and I knew this would end up being the outcome. My surgeon is incredible, she was texting me while on vacation for picture updates and even came home early to operate on me. If you guys need a plastic surgeon please go to Dr. Chelsie Snider here in Dallas. She's brilliant and my friend now.

Whoopsie...Last night when we got home I took a deep breath, like box breathing deep, for this first time since my first surgery. My chest already felt better by 80%, and if it weren't for these devil drains, I would be much more comfortable. I honestly believe I will start to feel good soon, for real this time. I hate being referred to as sick, but that's what I am, and currently on pain medication, pardon my rambling, but I have lots to say because I have had an epiphany, or maybe a resurgence of admiration for the people in my life. Specifically Luke.

If I'm being honest, I have NEVER been made to feel so completely loved and safe by someone before. I don't think I would have been able to fully recognize or even accept all of the compassion, empathy, respect, and physical care that Luke effortlessly gives to me. Freely, because he wants to and he notices I need help before I do sometimes, if it weren't for cancer. How he makes me feel reminds me of when I would fake being sick and my mom would let me stay home, just me and her. That kind of cozy completeness. And I have that, in the man that asked me to be his wife. I realize just how sappy this is, but cancer...what if I never take the chance to try to tell him just how thankful I am for him.

I tried to tell him today that 'thank you' is never going to be enough. From day one after my diagnosis he became the wall between me and my trauma, he has allowed me to express every feeling, all of them, the really ugly ones. And he did it with loving eyes and the best hugs. I was convinced because of my trauma that I was undeserving of love, unconditionally. One of my fears was that this would be too much for him. I was going to be alone in the end, that's how my reality has proven. I thought he was putting on a show.

I know. I'm stupid. I do deserve someone to love me before during and after all the shit thrown at me and now a complicated journey to be cancer free.

While our anniversary looks different, I'm excited for the memories it will create, because while I'm absolutely exhausted and feel funky most days, I have never been happier with some of my decisions. :)

I love him, so much. Especially his eyes when he smiles, which I get to see so much more now. I think I jaded him early in our relationship because ,I used to tell him, OFTEN that 'we do not give gold stars for bare minimum behavior.'

This fool thinks that is what he has been doing for me. Isn't that ridiculous after hearing all of that mushy stuff??? While my body is breaking he has completely patched up my heart. Because he wanted to! I'm so incredibly lucky.

Lucky in other areas too, and since it's New Year's Eve eve, it's a good time to reflect. I can't see past my cancer right now, sorry if it's annoying. Not sorry.

When I decided to "announce" I had cancer and when Luke created the Go Fund Me, which by the way blew us completely away. There are no words for me to be able to even begin to explain how much that did for my ENTIRE family.

I was given a backstage pass to my obituary. I was given the opportunity to be alive and hear what the people I love the most in life truly think of me. That's not something most people are able to hear. I have been overwhelmed with gratitude and genuine peace.

Wild. I am in a bruised and broken body hurting more than I want to admit and absolutely terrified about chemo next month, but I feel lucky. I guess when death is the only other option the little things become the most important. So while 2024 was NOT it, I learned to slow down, to breathe intentionally, and love fiercely.

My parents came up for Christmas, I was recovering from my hysterectomy and bladder sling procedure and they just hung out, accepted my mood swings and held me while I cried and apologized profusely. Before my family sent so many packages I couldn't keep up and then my parents brought even more, we were able to have a real Christmas. My boy got to have a Christmas because of the generosity of them. I also learned to never build anything with Papo again. I'm still so sorry I yelled at you Daddy.

I scheduled my first chemo infusion for January 14th. I've known it was coming, I even helped my oncologist pick the day. But the second we hung up today, I burst into tears. I'm just so tired of not feeling good. To know that is what is expected for the next 6 months of my life is daunting. The closer it gets, the less excited I am about being bald, and "looking" sick. Just a trivial thing, I know, but that's where I'm at in this moment now.

Happy Anniversary to my dude. 4 years married 7 together is just a second compared to what we have to look forward to. I know things will get better eventually. And if they don't, I know we can make it through stronger, together.

[boobblog]

FOMO

Tomorrow I should be walking the stage at my college graduation. I finished my degree in August, Summa Cum Laude. I worked so fucking hard, for so fucking long, and I did the hard parts WITH CANCER! I obviously didn't know it at the time, but I was absolutely dealing with the fatigue, and stress of not knowing what was wrong with my body on top of quantitative research and gender studies.

This morning I asked Luke to take pics of me with all my honor cords and sashes, with my diploma. I single piece of paper between two pieces of cardboard. No fancy holder, frame, or roll. It's just me, my wounds and my degree.

That damn piece of paper cost me so much more than just tons of money. Graduating became the only goal in my life. I think that was because it was the one goal that felt obtainable. Everything else in my life, all my dreams and wishes, have always felt just out of reach. If only I were smarter, braver, stronger, insert other motivational verbs....

I don't have a big house, or even a yard. I don't have a savings account or anything set aside for retirement. Even if we did, that shit would have already been spent. Have I told y'all just how expensive cancer is? Not to mention all the sacrifices. Ugh the sacrifices.

Walking the stage was going to be the finale to my trauma. It was going to signify that I fucking did it against all odds, I proved everyone wrong, and did it gloriously. Perfectly even. It was going to be my biggest fuck you to all the people that tried to destroy me, and my glory. My intelligence is the only thing I have control over. And now, I know I'm brilliant.

I don't mean that in a conceded way at all. I did the fucking work, I didn't cheat, I wrote the papers and read the books, and discussed all the hard shit with people that do not agree, I gained ownership over my thoughts and learned how to learn. Neil DeGrasse Tyson said that he's insatiably curious, and that explains me perfectly.

So, why the fuck am I having to sit at home under strict orders to not get sick because I have 2 surgeries THIS WEEK! No one will ever say cancer is convenient. I think I'm grieving the rite of passage that I placed so much weight in. It was the light at the end of the tunnel, and now I'm in a completely different tunnel, one that spins like the ones at fairs.

So I had Luke take pics. I want to remember being sad, feeling left out, like something is missing. I want to remember it because sometimes, pain brings clarity. I don't know what clarity I'm seeking, but I'm hoping that what I know about pain, will be true in this situation. (I'll post the pics once he edits them)

I don't feel sorry for myself, yet when I try to talk about what is upsetting me, why does it feel like it seems so trivial to other people? And, how come, everything is such a big deal to me? I wanted Killian to see me walk, I wanted him to see that I did this for me, but, I also did it for him. I picked myself up from literal ashes, and drudged my way out of the eternal flames of my own despair and did that shit. I guess I just wanted someone to feel proud of me for not giving up.

That sounds so stupid, I know people are proud of me, but in my stupid little brain, without the rite of passage, then it's not deserved. I suppose that's also my trauma speaking, because why the fuck would I not deserve people to be proud of me?

I can answer that. I'm not proud of me, and I don't know what I will have to do in order to feel that way. I've made so many mistakes, bad decisions, hurt people that I can't forgive myself for, so I suppose I don't think I'm worthy of praise. Today, I'm not ok.

I'm sure a lot of this is my anxiety about what's happening this week, cancer, bills... all the shit, but most of it is grieving the new beginning tomorrow was supposed to represent.

[boobblog]

I've had a couple of really good days. I got my drains out finally and can do people things again, like bend and twist, and breathe. The pain is still there from the mastectomy, but that's is manageable. I've been trying to explain it to Luke, because it literally takes my breath away. It's like millions of electrical fires snapping all across my chest. It's especially bad after I've done literally anything.

I vacuumed the other day, (don't worry, the vacuum is light) and wanted to die. I was so out of breath and sweating, it made me realize that although I still look "good," I have such a long road ahead of me. I'm not really excited about it. In fact, if I think about it for too long I get mad all over again.

In the next 2 weeks I have a chemo class, pre op testing at the hospital, dr. appts with my gynecologist and plastic surgeon, my port placement surgery then 2 days later my total hysterectomy. I feel like I've been run over and then eaten and spit out already. I'm so grateful that everything is moving quickly, and it's all because I've pushed for it to happen this way. Remember that unhealthy sense of urgency I mentioned, well these are the results.

I was diagnosed in September. It is the beginning of December now and all I will have to do next year is chemo. After that it's port removal and reconstructive surgery. But the cancer treatment will be coming to an end.

That's the hope anyway. I got my pathology results from the mastectomy. All clear margins, and she even said I'm cancer free. It was such an enormous weight lifted off my shoulders. The thing living and growing inside my body, attacking me and making me sick is out. I was overcome with emotion. I wasn't expecting to hear that. If I'm cancer free then why am I still doing ALLLLLLLL these things? I know the answer to that, but telling someone they are cancer free and then telling them to celebrate feels insulting when they can barely make it up the stairs in the hospital parking garage.

My breast surgeon followed up her statement about me celebrating with, "oh, it says here that your right breast had a cluster of cancer cells as well, it's a good thing we took them both!"

Hold the fuck on! I've had 79575675035 imaging tests ran, some of them were even repeated, how was this missed? Why was it not sent for mammoprint testing? How do we KNOW that it's the same as the boob bandit in the left breast? Did we get clear margins on it?

WHAT THE FUCK DOES THIS CHANGE?

The answer is, I don't know, and they don't seem worried about it, so the only choice I have is to trust them. I do. But, now, theres a tiny voice in the back of my mind telling me that this has to change something. The one thing I keep thinking is that because my cancer is so aggressive and walking around like it's got an invisibility cloak, it will come back, somewhere else. Just because I'm having a hysterectomy and will be on hormone blockers for 5 years, doesn't eliminate the other areas in my body producing the hormones that caused my cancer.

I should have gone to medical school, damnit.

I am consumed with all the horrific prognoses I've gotten. Arthritis, menopause, weak bones, blah blah blah.... In my mind, I'm still young and fun. In reality, my body is not able to keep up.

Sometimes I dream about when I was still dancing. How I was so in tune with my body that I could do all the things with my eyes closed. In my dreams, my body is still mine. It doesn't feel like that anymore.

I feels like I lost something, something I never knew how to keep, or that it could even be taken from me.

I think I'm just unsettled. My soul is tired, if that makes sense. I spend the majority of my time, hiding how I truly feel. My boy is in online school and home with us, so he sees everything, and apparently I'm an excellent actress, because this fool was just going about life like I have my shit together enough to handle his foolishness and teenager tendencies.

I lost my shit with him. To be fair, I tried having a feeling circle. You know, like in The New Girl. I even had a feeling stick, which was a ruler I found. But I started the feeling circle and I guess my feelings were still too strong to try and have a calm discussion about priorities and helping mom out more. I lost it. I wasn't yelling. We don't yell in our home.

But, I was saying, "I have cancer....", I just kept saying that, it's like I was caught up in a hamster wheel, just repeating it. Partly because I needed him to realize how serious this shit is, but mostly because saying it out loud to my son, made it sink in.

Still, today, it doesn't feel real. Also, why in the hell is it NOW that my hair is the healthiest it's ever been? That's pretty shitty Gods. But whatever. I'm alive, right. That's what everyone says anyway. It just doesn't feel like I'm living.

I have been reading though. Alot. It makes me want to write fiction books. I am able to lose myself in these stories. The room around me fades away and it's like I'm in the room with the characters, watching as everything happens in front me. It's such a personal and special experience. And because of the type of books I'm reading, sometimes it's kind of SPICY....(that last part MUST be read in Stefan's voice from SNL).

But did you know, not everyone is able to have images in their minds like that? Luke cannot imagine moving images in his head, and has a hard time visualizing things based on a description. It has something to do with our brains. However, he says when I write, he can. Maybe he is just being nice, but maybe I write things in a different way, a way that other neurodivergents can participate in. That's a fun thing to think about.

Maybe I can try that out here too. Chemo starts 1/14. I'll have 4 rounds 3 weeks apart that last 4 hours each time. That'll give me soooo much time to write. Maybe.

I haven't done much soul searching lately. It's been nice to turn my brain off. After our family meeting, Killian got his shit together and is back to being the best human on the planet, so I've just been allowing myself to feel safe and peaceful, for the time being. So, no big revelations this time. For the moment, I'm enjoying not crying.

[boobblog]

I'm not editing this...

Luke has been worried about my heart for years. He used to tell me all the time that he seriously thinks I'm going to have a heart attack. Now, between cancer and my stupid sense of urgency that may or may not be from my time in Air Force, he is even more acutely aware. I was talking with a friend the other day and I was able to put into words what happens in my brain when I'm feeling "stressed."

Everything and I mean everything, carries an equal value of importance, HAS to be done as quickly as possible, so that no one is affected by my time management skills, but it also has to be done perfectly creating zero room for errors. If I mess something up, there is a whole shame cycle I will go through. I'm telling y'all, it's cluster up there.

The problem, there's a lot, but the one I've recently uncovered is that I'm driving myself crazy. I thrive in creative spaces, which can be spaces not always used creatively, but the tasks I'm doing become boring because I have these made up rules in my head, that only I am holding myself too. Insane right? Who in the their right mind makes up rules for tasks that don't have rules, and then punishes themselves for not meeting the expected outcome.

Me. I do that. With everything I do.

I mentioned my time in the Air Force. I did 4 years active duty, all of which were spent in Misawa, Japan, and 2 years in the reserves here in DFW. Part of me thinks I would have stayed till retirement had I not entered into the most traumatic relationship of my life immediately following my active duty stint. However, during that 10 year stint I was not ok, mentally or physically. I hurt people too. But, we can't change that can we.

Anywho, there's a video in my flashbacks of the BMT chow hall, and how all the drill instructors are deliberately tearing us down, so they can mold us into the machine that is the United States military. I'm sure you can sense where this is going, so I will spare you the imperialistic ramifications of cultivizing children. But know I'm not alone in these thoughts.

The military taught so many lessons, but it also created one of the deepest grooves in my brain that I have to physically work at daily to undo. It's annoying more than anything. But it showed me exactly how I will not be "molding" my child.

I got distracted, I was trying to explain my unreal sense of urgency and what I've learned about it. I get so angry, like Big Mad when I feel rushed. I've always thought that there was person to blame for this. Someone put pressure on me to do all these things, right now, perfectly. It's true, I always feel rushed, but no one was rushing me.

I just rushed! Why are all my epiphanies so simple when I type them out. In my brain these revelations are massive and a very big deal.

So how does my sense of urgency have anything to do with cancer you ask? The hospitalist actually congratulated me on doing all of my testing done within 2 months. He said that he's never seen that and called me the poster child of cancer treatment. What the fuck? People sit on a diagnosis like that? Why was it so easy for me to make all the 50457937 appointments, and push for all these procedures before chemo? Who knows, my sense of urgency was helpful, making the chance for me to get rid of it further and further away.

I have a particularly fucked up bag of tricks, that's what I like to call my mental health disorders. Yup multiple. I am officially diagnosed with: Severe Anxiety, Chronic Depression, Bulimia (in remission, yes, I already told y'all this, but I did that, I stopped it,) and Complex-PTSD. Luckily for me, every single one of these diagnoses presents like something entirely different, at different times. Not. So managing the symptoms and thoughts has been complicated to say the least.

Let's talk about that. Having cancer while also having depression is so fucked up. It's like the universe, said Hey look at that depressy/stressy person who already struggles with suicidal ideations, they're perfect! Let's give them this disease that will absolutley kill them if they don't do the most painful things to their bodies. But have no fear, we will call them survivors and warriors making them think this was their choice. Cancer doesn't give a fuck about your mental health. It's like here you go, now's your chance to just let go. But, if you don't fight (insert religious trauma here), so the only choice is to go suffer tremendouly while actively fighting to keep the life you didn't want to keep before.

This is one of the reasons I struggle with God the Father. Because I have the best father, and if my earthly Dad is better than some people's Heavenly father, who is capable of preventing this shit, but doesn't, then I have a really hard time wrapping my mind around an all loving heavenly father. So, I say the universe. Not to discredit your God, this is what works for me. People have used God the father to beat me over the head for years. Maybe there's a lot to heal from here still, but if he is all knowing then he shouldn't mind, right?

I'm not a warrior, I have a low pain tolerance now (tattoos do not count, that's therapy and I love that pain) and I have the weakest stomach. I struggle changing the dressings on my own body. I used to be this bad ass first assist with a stomach made from steel, seriously, I held eyeballs, and reconstructed faces after drunken bar fights between stupid boys. Now, I cry and/or throw up rubbing antibiotic ointment on my "nipples". Cool cool cool cool

I'm typing this from the notes I took last night at 0352 in the morning on my phone. I learned another thing about myself. Self discovery is a journey, and it's the only place I can go right now. So I learned that this blog will be the physical manifestations of me properly re-filing my memories. Remember how I told you guys how my PTSD hid thoughts and memories to protect me. Well now it thinks I'm strong enough to process all of them, at once, while I have cancer.

THAT IS WHAT MAKES ME A WARRIOR. I'M DOING THAT.

I wanted to start this entry with a thought I had last night. Why is it that most people are telling me I look and/or sound good when they see or speak to me? Is there a way that I'm supposed to look or sound? Am I fucking cancer up too?

Nope that's not a real thought. So imagine it is now 0406 last night and I identified an unreal thought in real time! My therapy peeps will know that this is a huge accomplishment, so get ready to have your minds blown.

That thought is irrational. I'm really only speaking at lengths to my family and they have said those things. But they would NEVER mean it the way my fucked up little brain imagined up. But that made me reflect more. They wouldn't mean it like that because I've told them about how I think and feel about the impact words have on me.

Communication is such a tool that not many people have mastered. We should be taught better how to have hard verbal conversations about things like cancer, and rape.

Ohhhhh nice seque again, rape. Yup, #metoo. Moving on, it doesn't define me, I will not be shamed, or embarrassed and I absolutely, definitely, without a second thought NOT tone down MY story for your comfortability. If it makes you uncomfortable, go touch some grass and be thankful you don't have to figure out how to "survive". Yet.

[boobblog]

We're going there

I'm not sure if I've done a good job at explaining just how emotional it is to have cancer. I'm purposefully not capitalizing the word, because that gives it too much power in my silly little head, but the grammar is killing me too. But the emotions, dude.

I don't feel sick, not cancer sick anyway. I feel abused, defeated, mutilated, and forced. But not sick. Usually we have something tangible to grab on to, to know when the treatment is working, and we can gauge if we are getting better. Zofran works for nausea, Gabapentin works for nerve pain. But nothing, and seriously, there is nothing that can help you escape cancer unless you have surgery, do the chemo or radiation or whatever fucked up combination your cancer determines you need.

My treatment plan has been set in stone 100 times. That stone must be made from fluid because it is ever changing, like my cancer. But, where does that leave me? I'm a whole person with a life and dreams. I've had body dysmorphia for the majority of my adult life. I am in remission from Bulimia. That's what William calls it, because I always struggle with food, I'm just not throwing it all up right now, but the thoughts are always there.

I guess you can say I've lived my life trying to be the person others wanted me to be. I was in ballet for years, and have distinct memories of playing a munchkin in The Wizard of Oz at 8 years old. My teacher pinched my thighs in front of everyone and said "at least the munchkin's were pudgy." Implying I was the perfect munchkin.

Trauma is weird. I've held on to that memory for my entire life. A pudgy munchkin, that's me. Nah, not me. So I started running. And running, if you didn't read that in a Forest Gump voice we can't be friends. I ran my ass off. Literally. I was also abusing Adderall and in nursing school. Not the best combination when you're trying to prove to people that you are good enough.

Every stage of my life has been met with a man giving me his unwelcome opinion about how my body should be in order for him to be happier. Stronger thighs, biceps, defined deltoids, heavy squats, inclined bench presses, all of it, and I was solid. The best shape of my life, at that time according to the man I was trying to keep. Ever evolving and I was the one doing the work.

None of that shit mattered, they still cheated and left. Left me, the new me I didn't know what to do with, and the old me inside that was furious with MYSELF for not being better.

Hello depression, my old friend. Stupid cycles of dopamine and sadness, seratonin and anxiety, life and death. But when you become a mom, NOTHING is just about you anymore.

When I was diagnosed the thing I was most upset about was the loss of autonomy. I did not and still do not want to do a damn thing. I have lost it all and I'm tired, I couldn't stand the thought of forcing my body through more trauma. To me it wasn't worth it. I wasn't worth it.

I mentioned being raped, more than once. This body, my body, the vessel I was given to do this life in has never been fully mine. Maybe that's because I never took ownership over it and wanted so badly to be taken care of. I let men specifically treat me in ways that would make me cut a bitch today. But not then. Back then I remember feeling as if I had left my physical body and was floating somewhere within his breath hovering and watching what was happening without saying a word. Not knowing the words to say because it wouldn't stop it anyway. I'm crying now just typing it because I'm still so mad at myself. I'm mad at them, I'm mad I didn't say a single word. And I'm mad at the system for telling me I shouldn't have been there, I shouldn't surround myself with those people. If I wasn't running the roads, I wouldn't have been raped.

Fuck that, and fuck you if you agree.

Those people? What does that mean? The people that chose to take advantage of me and hurt me in ways that I still haven't recovered from. People that take you from parking garages and lie to their sisters that it never happened. But it did happen, and you know it did too. I trusted him, I wasn't in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was just available.

Does that mean I deserved it? According to some people yes. Would it change your mind to know I was 13? I was wearing a swim suit and bermuda shorts (it was 1997) with a cover up. Does that make it excusable?

I'm rambling. I haven't told anyone except those closest to me that. I don't even think my parents know the details. Sorry mom. The words always vanish when I try to tell you. Because it was not your fault. None of this shit is. I have the best parents in the world, for me.

Now cancer. Fuck. So my tumor was, (I say was because that ho was removed on the 13th) ER +, PR +, her2 -. All that means for these purposes is that it was growing and feeding off my hormones. What makes this even more exciting (facetiousness implied) is that I have been on hormones since I was 12 years old.

Heavy periods in young girls means you get put on birth control really early. Then we have to stay on birth control until menopause because boys are dumb and irresponsible and liable to get us pregnant if we aren't the ones doing all the preventative work. As an adult I chose to have an IUD. I chose to have hormones directly implanted into my uterus. Yes it hurt. Because men are little bitches incapable to doing anything for the greater good. If you are offended then I'm talking about you.

Due to the aggressive nature of my cancer cunt I had my IUD removed two days after diagnosis. I wasted no time. Do you know what happens when you remove something that has been regulating your hormones for over 30 years?

Thanos snap!

I'm thrown into the most horrific cycle I've ever experienced. I'm bleeding through my pants within minutes, I'm cramping, I'm crying, I'm scared. "oh Britt, I'm so sorry, but all this is normal, just go about your day and it'll get easier." Exactly how am I suppose to be normal? What is normal now? Nothing will ever be the same from this day forward.

Remember when I told you my breast surgeon said it was small and simple. She wasn't lying, she was speaking from the information she had at the time. But now my choices were lumpectomy vs. mastectomy and chemo. I got to "choose" which surgical procedure. This felt extra important to me. I wanted to feel in control of something. I'm also no punk bitch so if I have to live, and I can't just let nature do the rest and die, then fuck it, go big or go home.

Because my body has been taken from me, more than once, the feelings are very similar right now. These goddamn cells invaded me. Probably because I didn't protect it. But they're here and dictating everything. I'm having a hysterectomy on 12/20. This is because the chemo will kill my ovaries... theres a mass there too...they say it's just a cyst, that's what they said about the stupid goblin in my boob too. Luke had a vasectomy, so no issues with bearing children.

But I'll be damned if even the surgical procedure, the one thing I was involved with also changed. I woke up from surgery with purse string sutures, a technique I had never heard of, with expanders, which I did not want. Again, I explicity trust my surgeons, she did what she needed to do and I'm sure it will "look" ok when all this is said an done. However, no one and nothing can prepare you for the moment you get home and take off the bandages for the first time.

Standing in my bathroom, beat the hell up. I had some post surgery complications and didn't want to do it alone. With Luke beside me I removed the compression bra and layers of dressings and had no words. I felt like a monster. No nipples, drains full of blood pertruding from the sides of my body, swelling, bruising, and hard bags under the surface of my skin where my boobs were.

I had magnificent boobs, according to Luke. Now, I feel like a plate is on my chest. The expanders are not filled right now. I am essentially flat. Boyish even.

Talk about a mind trip. I was trying to verbalize my feelings to William about this, and remember when I said he puts me in my place so easily, he said. "Gender affirming care is so necessary and you are receiving it without any implications, conflicts of interest or even interference from the government." Whoa. Boobs are considered gender affirming care? Without them and without my uterus I can no longer function as a woman. So were my boobs and having a uterus not what made me female? Is it the other sex organ I have? That seems ridiculous, because it's there to birth children as well.

I'm done having kids, and have no use for all these things I was born with. So what am I? A thing? I didn't see me in my body, I still struggle with being me, in this body. That's because it's not my body that makes me, me. How selfish of me to not have known this sooner.

This brings me to a hot topic that I cannot ignore, because I am a woman, that felt like a man in that moment. Full stop.

Trans people live their entire lives feeling like the thing. They are one way on the outside, but someone different on the inside. If my friend went to their doctor and asked to have their uterus removed or for a mastectomy they would be thrown in jail. And some people are worried about sports and where they pee. That seems so reductive to be used in the same sentence discussing their existence.

But that's not what drives those discussions. They are worried that if we are allowed to be ourselves authentically, then we will disturb their peace. My body my choice right, but with stipulations and some white dude gets to determine what they are. My life matters more than my friends lives, and I've been cozying up to that aspect over the last few months. When I say burn it down, I fucking mean it.

I got myself worked up. Political issues and personal rights have a way of overlapping, even if we try to keep them separated. Talk to you hurting friends, find out how you can be a better friend.

I'm sorry, I got sidelined, if you know me you know my political views, and you know I believe that you are more than yours, I am not trying to ostrasize anyone or start a debate. I uncovered a trigger for me. One I wan't ready to feel so close to. It's like I was shown inside the mind of the people I love. And it hurt. It's hurts knowing there's nothing I can do, for them, or for me.

We just keep waking up and hoping to not be angry today. Hoping to not hurt much today. Hoping the treatments work, the hormones go away, the nerve endings die so the electrical fires on my chest stop. There's that word again, hope. I want to replace it, it doesn't serve me and makes me have more questions. I will just keep trying. Whatever that looks like today.

[boobblog]

The In Between

It was a dark and stormy night, just kidding, but seriously. The storm just wasn't outside, it was in me. Insert feelings here, all of them, at the same time. The time from diagnosis to surgery is a journey. But not a cute one. I would compare this to Frodo climbing Mordor, everyday, from the bottom. Some days he gets further than others, but he always ends up back on his ass looking up at the big scary thing, intimidated, and scared to death. Not figuratively either...

There's a song by Phoebe Star, Lavendar Scars. It's hauntingly beautiful, and one of the lyrics is about the depths of despair. If I had a way of describing my mood during this time, this sums it up.

This is where my trauma comes into play...y'all still won't get the whole tea though. I'm not interested in destroying some of y'alls reality.

The problem for me is that my brain lacks specific chemicals to properly file away memories, this means I have an unrealistic view of situations at times. Knowing I cannot trust my thoughts at all times has been a struggle on it's own. I'm incredibly smart, not to brag, but objectively, so I compensated and created a safety net of sorts. It tells me when I'm safe and keeps me from doing certain things it thinks will be harmful. Unfortunately, the trauma I have experienced came from the hands of people. People I trusted. So how do you learn to trust strangers charged with making sure you don't die?

You give up.

I don't give up. I have been placed in a car and told to drive across the country with my kid and 3 suitcases, and I still fought. Because at the time I thought it was the right thing to do. But I didn't have a choice and was forced to start over. Again. I did it though, and did it well. I could give it all up everyday for the rest of my life and never feel an ounce of regret. Having nothing allowed me to see how much I really have. And it was so much more than just love.

Sorry, I like talking about my story, it made me. I really didn't start living until we came to Dallas. This was the story I was writing, for me and by me. I stepped into my authenticity and was truly working on just being happy right now.

Back on track- I practice mindfulness daily. For those of you lucky enough to know Luke you will remember his manic phase when he was following Ram Dass's teachings. I picked this up during that period and promptly tossed everything else. However, there is something there. Being present in the here and now and remembering to breathe sounds so simple, but it is quite possibly the hardest thing I've ever done. Anytime someone is asking for tips and tricks to relax I recommend looking up Mooji on YouTube. His guided meditations, along with his buttery voice touches the most wounded parts of me. Even if it is for a second. Seriously, go look him up, I'll wait.

I've had those gems in my pocket for years, but when I needed them, when I was drowning in my thoughts and tears, I had nothing. Nothing anyone said helped, I couldn't nurse brain this one away. One morning, I say morning but it was 2 am, I was up watching Big Bang (I'll fight you, this show is great) and was laughing. In that moment, I gave up. Surrendered if you will, but to myself. I let go of the reigns and CHOSE to trust the team I was given. Now all I had to do was just show up, and wake up.

I hadn't laughed in weeks. Everyday was the same, wake up, am I crying, yes, stay home. Not crying try to go to work. If I wasn't trying to keep my job I was at another appointment. Labs, MRI's, CT's, Bone Scans, Radiation Oncologist, Medical Oncologist, Breast Specialist, SO MANY APPOINTMENTS.

It was during this period that I learned my staging and prognosis. My breast specialist is the tiniest woman with the most commanding presence. She walked into the room directly to me, took my hands and said, and I quote: " Hey there survivor, this is small and curable, no big deal." What an odd thing to say first, but she's awesome and I'm the worst with words, so what do I know? She told us I was stage 1a, would need surgery and possibly radiation. We had a few good days after this. Things suddenly felt doable.

Then my imaging results came back.

Another break check moment. Bitchhhhhh that boob dude doubled in size in less than 2 weeks, spit out 2 other smaller confirmed carcinomas and grew a nest of calcifications around the OG. It was insulating itself. This changed my diagnosis and treatment plan drastically. I have cancer, cancer.

Luckily, I'm a pro at having the rug pulled out from under me by now. However, I never notice that's what is happening until after all the snot and tears.

My poor boy. He wasn't lasting 10 minutes at school without worrying and having a full blown panic attack. Everyday. He couldn't be away from me. Luke found a hidden superpower to pick up all of our pieces and just hold them. He held them until we were ready to put them back together, as a family.

Here comes the masking, fake smiles, and false reasurrance. Ugh, that feels so fake. But it was neccessary. My boy needed hope, and I didn't have any to offer him. So I faked it. Damnit, if I didn't start to feel better too. Placebo effect, maybe. Who knows? I didn't want to kill myself, so I took off running with it. Hope is thrown around way to easily.

When my grandmother was missing (told y'all, TRAUMA) all anyone said was stay hopeful, keep the faith. But what happens when you never had hope and faith to begin with? So this time, when I'm being told the same thing, just about my cancer, it felt played out. It felt like an inappropriate response to say TO ME about me. You keep the faith, you keep hoping for the best. I'm still wrapping my mind around the fact that everything that makes me a woman will be gone, and if I choose to not follow through with the treatment plan, I WILL DIE. Those are the options you are given.

Let's stop here. I had therapy the other day, after my mastectomy, and made some revelations about what makes me a woman, and whooooo buddy it's not boobs and a uterus.

[boobblog]

little backstory...

Lets all imagine a time in our lives that we felt safe, secure and like things had finally found a way of figuring themselves out. The bills are paid, everyone is healthy, we are happy. But, you feel off. Not sick, not hurt, but so very tired. This isn't all too foreign to imagine right?

I've done everything the hard way. I had to figure things by myself. I wanted ownership over my life. I had been pursuing my degree for over 20 years. I'm not exaggerating either. Nursing school- check, Associates degree in Criminal Justice- Check, and finally my bachelor's degree. It is not a biology degree like I set out to accomplish, but it is finished, Summa Cum Laude too. Because I am a nerd and worked so hard and for so long. So I was feeling a sense of relief, freedom, opportunity and even had some energy!

Obviously, I took this time to make myself a priority. My body more specifically. I had abused it with sleepless nights, way too much caffeine, wine and mood stabilizers. All of those things are not bad, they were necessary at the time, but I was feeling the effects of not taking better care of myself. Step one go to the doctor.

I started getting mammograms in 2023 because I felt a lump. It took me using some pull in the hospital I work with because no one thinks an otherwise healthy 39 year old needs to do preventative screenings for something she doesn't have a family history of. But, I pushed until I got the order. I got the mammo, then I got a call that my tissue is very dense and I need to come back for an ultrasound to confirm. Do the ultrasound, and I hear nothing back. We watch and wait a year.

It's been a year now, and a day before my birthday. Aug 6, 2024. I go for my mammogram and everything felt different. I'm not saying I'm a witch or anything, but I fucking knew then. I knew it. As per the usual, mammo is abnormal- dense breast tissue- but this time I'm coming back for a second look ultra sound with the radiologist. That's weird. She tells me that last year I had calcifications present in the left breast at the time of my previous ultrasound.

SCREEECHHHHHH, excuse me? Calcifications are pre indications that something is afoot! Had anyone mentioned calcifications last year I would have been the poster child for preventative treatment. I would have done fucking anything to not be where I am right now.

Anyway, the calcifications are now a fully formed mass, a boob dude if you will. Only now he brought some friends to hang out too. Sweet, I just turned 40, graduated college (but never got to walk across a stage) and now an unwelcome Boob Dude hanging out with his buddies in my boob!

Next step biopsy. It was on a Monday, 9/23/2024 and I thought I would be going straight to work afterward, hahahahaha. That was a cute thought. My parents drove up for this. We all knew it was cancer, but no one wanted to say anything. Listen, when they say it won't hurt, they're lying to you.

I'm at work the next day and cannot function knowing my results are in. I work in pediatric surgery with some of the most intelligent surgeons. We order biopsies and refer patients to oncology all the time. I know the process, I do the process daily. To say being at work is triggering is an understatement. Anxiety and PTSD are a bitch to live with, so some things are harder than they should be.

Anywho. I get the report and I see measurements, locations, and the word carcinoma. Spiraling, I ask one of the surgeons to read my report.

"Aw shucks Britt, there's something there."

The air left my body and I felt like a shell floating through time and space with people looking at me, waiting for me to say something. People don't like being uncomfortable, especially when big things happen to other people. So I did what I always do. FUCKING PANIC!

Internally of course, what, how, why, all the thoughts were there at the same time and I of course was crying. It was maybe 10 mins later when I got a call from my gynecologist office saying I needed to come in. You see, they're the ones that ordered my mammogram, so the results go to her. If your doctor is not listening to you, and you feel like something needs to be done, TALK TO A DIFFERENT DOCTOR!

Luke left work and met me at the office. We walked across the street to the hospital, up to her office, and in 3 minutes I was looking her in the eyes when she said "Brittany, you have invasive ductal carcinoma, it's small but will require surgery...."

I dissociated. Another lovely PTSD symptom that sometimes can be very handy. Luke looks at me in the hallway outside her office and I just melted. How in the hell did I get cancer? What did I do to deserve all the shit I've been dealt? What in the hell does this mean?

"Just stay positive, you are a survivor already, go kick cancer's ass!!!" That's what everyone says. It's like an immediate response. Like the entire country has been programmed to respond with empty affirmations meant to distract from the real shit that someone is dealing with. Keep the ugly stuff to yourself, don't put that negativity into the universe, blah blah... all I hear is that you are not comfortable with me. I'm not a surface level person, I want to know your secrets and what makes you feel peace. I want to know you've done the work to be self-aware so that you can sit in uncomfortable silence with me while I try to figure out how to keep going.

Many of you will not like what I am about to say, hopefully because you know me and my intentions, you will see this for what it is, a way of coping. There is no God. At least not an almighty sky daddy that will save me. He would've done that when I was raped, the first time. You see when bad shit happens to good people, we find others like us. That is God. The actions of people loving other people, feeding people, housing them, and supporting them. I don't know how or why we are here, but whatever is operating our existence is not a Man. I'm a feminist too if you haven't noticed. Trauma does that to people.

Now that you know I'm not religious, but rather extremely spiritual you may understand that I'm not thinking positively. I'm being real. I have cancer, everything I have to do hurts or makes me sick, I'm scared and you expect me to put on a happy face for you, you want me to pretend everything is fine, and ignore the fucking fire that is actually roaring, literally, in my body.

As I'm typing this, I am 7 days post a double mastectomy with expander placement. My cancer was growing rapidly and multiplying so getting rid of it was everyones priority. It's gone, but no one has told me I'm cancer free yet. I feel like that would be an important aspect to tell someone when the goal of the procedure is rid my body of the cancer.

I can ramble but I want some order to this, so I'll stop for now. My body looks monsterous, holler if you want pics, I've completely removed myself from my body (hello whoo whoo), but it's my body. And alive. That's good enough, for now.

[boobblog]

Working Title

Hi. I don't know how to start this, my brain says I should just start typing because everyone says I write so well. My intrusive thoughts make me believe that this is the dumbest idea I've ever had and no one will want to read it, or if they do, they will hate it or me.

So if you hate this, or me, to bad. I lost my boobs and don't have time to be worried about what anyone thinks of me.

I turned 40 in August. It felt like such a finale of sorts. I made it out alive, happy and focused. It took so much to get there. I'll talk about all that eventually. This isn't for me to air out my trauma, that's what therapy is for. William, my therapist is an incredibly gentle, intelligent, and fierce human. He puts me in my place with just 3 words. Like, he will say the simplest things that will physically touch my soul.

Ah, that's a good segue to talk about how whoo whoo I am. I speak in metaphor, use illiterations and cuss words like filigree and don't have much of a filter. So that being said, welcome to my blog. My thoughts do not follow a chronological order, and I will not apologize if what I say doesn't make sense, at first. It will eventually.

I want to write a book, a self-help of sorts. But I'm not an expert in anything other than the shit life has thrown at me. What I've realized recently is that there are so many others with similar situations and we all just cower in our home pretending everything is ok. But it's not ok, and people suck.

There have been so many nights that I have felt completely alone and isolated, sometimes by design, but other times because of the constraints I've placed on my feelings and how much they are welcome in the world. None of that shit is real, and fuck the person that made me feel like I was too much.

Ok, back to writing my book. Honestly, I just want to be considered an author. To me that is "making it." My words would be immortalized tangilbly. There is no title, direction, protagonist, and I don't even know where to begin, so let's start on September 24, 2024. The day I was diagnosed with breast cancer.