I can’t say I was expecting to lose my boobs this year. I’m 42 with my body parts mostly intact, so it just wasn’t top of mind. But here I am, newly boobless and still a little confused about how it all happened.
It started in January when I went in for a routine mammogram. By mid-February I’d had a biopsy, an MRI, multiple meetings with multiple surgeons, a diagnosis of high-grade ductal carcinoma in situ (DCIS, or an early form of breast cancer), and a strong recommendation to have a mastectomy.
Everyone will tell you that at first it doesn’t seem real. And they are right. Our brains simply can’t process a lifetime of having our breasts in one moment, and then being told they’ve got to go in the next. Being entirely unfamiliar with the world of cancers and surgeries and radiation, I had no idea what I was in for—and had a million questions to ask my surgeon. But top of mind was: “Can we hold off until after my trip to St. Thomas?”
For almost ten years now, my family and I have taken our annual vacation to a beach. As a Californian in land-locked Colorado, I often feel the call of the ocean—and it means my fifth- and sixth-grade kids can snorkel all day without coming up for air. These vacations aren’t just a quick detour from mountain living; they’re a mental reset that, almost without fail, reinvigorate my writing and motivation. Plus last year’s trip—to Maui, just before the fires—was the first time my kids were old enough to not require hyper-vigilance on the beach, which yielded another vacation bonus—relaxation. This year, our annual trip would assume even more significance: it would be a break from the appointments, the bills, and insurance hassles; a chance to catch my breath before this seemingly impossible thing happened.
Day by day, the eventuality of my breast removal started becoming more and more real—and within me, a desire to both commemorate the event and honor my breasts before they were gone forever. I found myself googling “boobs bucket list” and discovering that this is, in fact, a thing. I immediately threw out the idea of immortalizing them in plaster, but I did find references to a farewell tour celebration that sat better with me. Among options, a “thanks for the mammaries” margarita party with friends and a ta-ta-tastic, swimsuit-filled beach vacation. A sort of boob voyage, if you will.
In the weeks before St. Thomas, all I could think about was my breasts. Not in the good, my-cleavage-looks-so-great sort of way, but in the foggy, uncertain, wait-I-have-to-chop-them-off? way. Never in my life had they occupied so much of my headspace. Not when I was young and wondering when they’d arrive; not when I was pregnant and they got ridiculously uncomfortable; and not even when I kept a stringent breastfeeding and pumping schedule with my two kids. Now I had to consider whether to keep one or both; how to tend to the drains that would be coming out of me for weeks following the surgery; how to secure and trust mastectomy and reconstruction surgeries to the only two surgeons in my county that my crappy freelancer insurance would cover; and, maybe most stressful of all, how to pick a cup size for the rest of my life.
