I have 30 days
Loving on this version of my body while I still can
I said it out loud to my mama today and then just sat there looking at her.
“I have 30 days.”
And she looked at me like, “What do you mean, boo?”
And I said:
I have 30 days with this body that I’ve known for 38 years.
30 days with these boobs.
30 days of looking in the mirror and seeing this version of myself staring back at me.
And when I said it out loud, I think that was the first time it really settled into my body in that this shit is real.
Because up until this point, everything has just felt like a long to do list of things that needed to happen yesterday.
Doctor’s appointments.
Sharing the news with friends and family.
Contemplating how I’m going to share with my clients.
Having 1:1’s with my team to inform them so we can plan.
Planning for what a cancer diagnosis will do to my finances
Just…a bunch of tiny decisions and things that I HAVE to do.
Things were moving fast and we were all just trying to keep up.
And so as I’m sitting on the couch talking to my mama, time slowed down long enough for me to realize:
Oh.
I’m about to lose my breast.
that was the moment it became real for her
Before I said that, we had been talking about my plastics appointment.
We’d met with my navigator.
We’d met with my surgeon.
We’d met with my oncologist.
All of those appointments were long. 1-2 hours.
And it was a ton of information.
A ton!
And decisions needed to be made before we left out the door.
The plastics appointment was long but I had some control.
I had TIME to decide what I wanted.
But, I could tell mama was overwhelmed.
She didn’t say it.
But I know my mama.
I knew she was trying to process everything that was happening.
And what’s interesting is that appointment was actually one of the best appointments for me.
I walked out of there hopeful.
I walked out of there feeling like, okay, we got a plan.
But I think for her… that was the appointment where everything became real.
And I think that’s one of the strangest parts of this whole experience.
There are things that I’ve accepted that my friends and family haven’t.
And there are probably things they’ve accepted that I haven’t.
So we’re all just kind of… trying to hold each other through it.
Trying to extend each other grace.
Because this shit is emotional.
Hard.
Unsettling.
Unpredictable.
some mornings I just stare at the ceiling
I think I’m about 14 or 15 days post diagnosis now.
Which is such a weird place to exist.
That’s the thing about the interim.
The initial shock wears off just enough for reality to start settling in…but not enough for the reality to truly feel like it’s yours.
So, some mornings I wake up around 6:30 and just stare at the ceiling.
And I think:
you have cancer.
Like… girl, you have cancer.
And some days I can say it without a knot forming in my throat.
And other days I can’t even think it without tears filling my eyes.
It’s like I’m existing between two versions of myself.
Not fully who I was before.
Not yet whoever I’m about to become.
Just… here.
In the interim.
I didn’t realize how much I loved her
The thing that has surprised me the most is how emotional I feel about my body.
It’s taken intentional effort and work to develop a good relationship with my body.
When I’m a little thicker.
When I’m a little more snatched m.
Whenever I land…
I’ve really tried to love her for who she is.
Even the parts of her that I don’t always love.
But LISTEN, the way that I’m in awe of her right now?
I’ve never experienced this level of reverence before.
Sometimes I just stand in the mirror and stare at myself.
It brings tears to my eyes.
Because I know my body is going to look different.
I know what has been staring back at me for 38 years is about to change.
And I find myself holding my left boob and talking to her.
Full conversations.
Thanking her.
Thanking her for getting me this far in life.
For carrying me.
For being a part of me.
And if you know me, you know I love my boobs.
I ain’t got no booty, but I got titties, okay?
And they’ve always made me feel good about myself.
So even now, even with this massive tumor in her…
I still love her.
And I think that’s the part that makes me hurt the most.
Because yes, I want the tumor gone.
Now!
Get it out of me m.
And if I’m being honest?
I wish they could take the tumor out and just give me her back.
In all her glory.
Hanging.
Full.
Covering part of my stomach.
I want to keep my sacred body part.
But, I know that’s not how this works.
And, I know I’m going to get reconstructed, perfectly perky boobs.
And I know eventually I’ll learn how to love them too.
But right now?
It feels like grief.
Real grief.
It is grief.
Because I know I’m going to lose her.
And even though I get to keep my right boob, she’s going to change too.
She has to get lifted and booted so they match.
And you really don’t understand how emotional thinking about this process is until it’s your body.
Your reflection.
Your boobs.
Your reality.
grief and gratitude keep sitting next to each other
And they exist in the exact same moments.
There’s a part of me that feels devastated.
And then there’s another part of me that feels so grateful.
Grateful that reconstruction exists.
Grateful that technology has come this far.
Grateful that we caught it early.
Grateful that I’m not mainly sitting here worried about whether I’m going to live or die.
So my emotions literally go from devastation… to gratitude… to anger… to hope.
Sometimes within the same conversation.
And I’ve had to stop trying to force myself to process this in my way.
Some words don’t mean anything to me.
And some words mean everything.
And for me?
Hope means something.
I have hope.
30 more days
I have 30 days…
I have 30 more days with this version of my body.
30 more days to look at her.
To appreciate her.
To thank her.
To sit with her.
To hold her.
To say goodbye.
Because after surgery…
it’s going to feel like I’m getting introduced to
somebody new.
And I don’t think there’s any way to fully prepare for that.
So right now…
I’m just trying to love her while I still have her.