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After going through this, I believe you have to be a particularly crazy and hard-assed individual to get a boob job. Reconstruction was not as painful as the mastectomy, but I was again set back to not being able to put on my pants, which comes with its own set of problems.
Even when I couldn’t walk by myself, I refused to go to the bathroom in front of Z. Sometimes pulling my pants up was a 30-minute feat, but I still maintain that it was worth it. My engagement was tainted with feelings that I didn’t want, but I refused to put “pee-shy” on the list. Just refused. Z has seen bloody pus squirt out of my armpit, but by God, he has not seen me pee.
Now that I’m dressing myself, showering, and using the bathroom without hesitating, it’s time to assess the collateral damage.
Things are jiggling that didn’t used to jiggle. Like, I’ve had some chunk before, and I’ve actually lost a lot of weight since my diagnosis. But after four months of sitting on my ass and eating Indian food, the chunk is now just everywhere. I have no muscle definition. Did you know you can have cellulite on your arms? I didn’t even know that could happen. All of the definition I once had from biking and wearing heels? Gone. Jiggly. I don’t even want to talk about what happened to my butt.
(I maintained some ab definition, but I attribute that to all of the vomiting. Yummy.)
At my follow-up visit after my reconstruction, my doctor told me that I can do yoga in six weeks, but I can start jogging now if I wear a really good bra.
“Yeah, I’m not going to do that.” I jogged more than once, and every time I wondered why people still do it. Fuck jogging. Plus I can’t fathom bouncing my new equipment around. That just sounds like total agony.
This is not what wedding-shape looks like. Well, not in my mind. None of my clothes fit me because I’ve shrunk, but pre-cancer Cassie would say I can’t go out in public like this.
But what do I do? Bitch about it? Pay someone to airbrush me? Tell the Hootons to photograph me from space so I look tiny? Cancel the wedding and cry into my Cheetos?
No, I stand back, and for the first time in my life, say “This is what I have to work with, and Bitch, I’m going to rock it.”
I didn’t expect cancer to give me a lesson in confidence, but I can’t deny that it did. Your body is amazing. Look what it can do. You’re here to talk about it. Now shut the fuck up and strut.
“My boss couldn’t remember what they were called so she called them red-haired whores.”