NEW BOOBS FOR CHRISTMAS
by dana gonzalez 12.2022
Initially, this was my solution. Just lop the cancerous bags off. It was not, alas, the medical solution, with my oncologist choosing a much more sadistic course of treatment. After six months of chemo and its subsequent side effects – loss of appetite, diarrhea, constant bloody nose, magnesium deficiency resulting in inability to walk on my right foot, loss of hair, entirely (nose, brows, lashes, legs, looking way too much like Uncle Fester) and feeling uber-useless – I will now get my wish.
They call it bilateral mastectomy. I call it a war-zone. What else could it be?
They will remove breast tissue, nipples, areola, all of it. They will insert temporary “expanders” to hold the space for implants. This is my choice. I don’t want to live flat as a pancake for the next 30-40 years. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Though while Barbie doesn’t have a vag, does have boobs. And hair. I am aware of societal priorities. Not sure where Ken gets the will to live, but that just cannot be an issue for me at this time.
Speaking of Ken, my breast reconstruction surgeon is 33. Blue eyes and drop-dead gorgeous. Next week, I am going to instruct him on exactly where I want my new boobs and what shape they should take. I’d kind of been hoping for a middle-aged perv doc, but instead I get this surfer dude in the prime of his life. Some say I should be grateful – he knows the terrain. But I feel like I need to be working out and get a tan before I go under the knife. Which is not going to happen. So, once again, in this demeaning ordeal, I will need to suck it up and accept the Shrek-like person I have become.
Don’t get me wrong. Now three weeks after my last chemo, my hair is coming back. Yay! My head looks like a fluffy baby duck butt. Feeling hot hot hot.
Sure, I can get my hands on all variety of fake hair, eyebrows and lashes. But I’m done with all of them. Wigs are itchy, eyebrows pricey, and doing it myself makes me look like I am in a constant state of indecision. Forget lashes. If you thought mascara was tedious at five in the morning, try fat-fingering glue and spider legs above your eyeballs. Eventually you just say fuck it and go no-holds barred naked into the world. I do wear hats because you lose a lot of body heat without hair.
While enormously less thrilling than childbirth, this surgery should be exciting – I get new boobs! After this many years, however, I was actually very okay with the ones I have. There are nipples after all. Though I understand now that I can have them reconstructed, if I want them erect at all times. I do not. I can get prosthetic stick-ons. Meh. I can get 3D tattoos. Probably by another youthful dude with a knack for booby do-overs.
Underneath all of this superficial BS is the real hope that all of this is going to rid me of the cancer I was assured would be wiped out with chemo. There is now going to be radiation and other treatments I’m sure won’t be mentioned until they are upon me. I will be intimately scarred and a bit afraid of my own body – far more than women are already raised to be, but also partially because of the way women are raised to be.
I get that judging is out and acceptance is in. I was not raised that way. For me, good posture, clear skin, classic 32-28-32 measurements, a flat abdomen, small butt – this was the approved package. I have a hard time letting go of the standards that were ingrained into me in my youth and have therefore rarely felt comfortable in my own skin. This ordeal is challenging to say the least. My body has betrayed me in a way I can’t control. The imposed control is devastating.
Vanity is a luxury; I see that now. Succumbing to disease – rather, the treatment of disease erases pumped up illusions we have of ourselves. What’s left is the real deal. Laid bare, allowing the rest of the world to see the imperfections is refreshing and scary.
I’m apprehensive about major surgery, though I have been assured it won’t be quite the massacre I anticipate. I don’t run. Ever. But all of a sudden I’m wondering, “will I be able to run?” “What will happen to the pole-dancing career I’d planned for my retirement years?” This is just going to be weird all over the place. To think women have been doing this on purpose for decades.
What will my husband play with in bed? He shaves his head. I’m used to that. But a hairless woman without nipples? That requires a man in love. Lucky for me, I got one!
After all of this, there is of course the thing I try not to dwell on: what if it doesn’t work, what if the cancer comes back? I could have gorgeous boobs and still end up with a malignancy in my lymph nodes or in remaining tissue. I guess it will be a lingering fear. New Christmas boobies come at a price.
In sharing this story, I don’t think for one second that my plight is unique or more difficult than others who have suffered the same situation. I do hope to shed some light on the petty hurts, the actual pain and the humbling reality of dealing with cancer. I’m fairly certain it’s going to work out – new boobs not-withstanding – mostly through good faith and love from friends near and far and my family who have stood up to the challenge.
The Overhead Bin 